


Mummer's dance

by paintednails



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brothels, Exploration of courtesan culture, F/M, POV Jon Snow, POV Sansa Stark, Sansa isn't a prostitute, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Some elements from the telltale series exist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2020-04-12 13:21:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 58,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19132867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintednails/pseuds/paintednails
Summary: Sansa Stark vanishes during the bread riot.Alayne Rivers walks into Chataya's brothel for a second chance after her lady is killed; armed with wit, feminine grace, and charm she begins the treacherous navigation of her new life where even one moment of surprise could end her farce.To the north, Jon Snow remains the steadfast squire for Lord Gregor Forrester of Ironrath, and learns to lead by following him through war.By chance, he finds Alayne. Circumstances force them to confront the fact that in order to stay alive and go home, they have to play the Game.





	1. Chapter 1

They'd talked amicably for the better part of an hour, but now they were arguing. Lady Chataya understandably wanted nothing to do with a girl Shae had swept off the streets after hearing her sad tale. She'd run from the Riverlands to King's Landing to seek out a new life. She had nowhere else to go, no family whatsoever.

Shae, Sansa realized, was quite good at lying when she needed to be.

Yet it was not enough for Lady Chataya; Alayne didn't want to sell her body, and she had no such training. Why then would she go to a brothel for work? “I have no need for her, sweet as she looks,” Lady Chataya almost sounded kind when she spoke, even if she was dismissing her. 

Sansa curled up tightly on the soft velvet cushion she was seated on. The plate of small cakes and rich fruit remained untouched in front of her knees. In her hands, a cup of red tea trembled. She was going to have to go back to the Red Keep. Back to Joffrey and Cersei. Back before the court to be beaten. 

She fingered her dyed hair. It was a dull, nut brown. Not a strand of her mother remained with her. Shae had poured dye meant for clothing on it in the sweltering shop they'd come across during their harrowing journey to the Street of Silk. Another way to conceal her from any of the guards that might be searching for her, not that the riot allowed them the luxury of doing so easily. 

“She can sing,” Shae argued. “She can write, she can read, she knows her numbers -” 

“So you've said. But this is a brothel; the wares that we peddle are love. Tell me, can she love? I look at her and know that she doesn't know how. Unless she wants to learn, the answer is  _no_.”

“I can sing in High Valyrian,” Sansa blurted. It was as though the panic had completely caused her to give leave of her senses. Yet, it was this same panic that spurred her into action. She didn't want to go back to Joffrey and Cersei. Even if Robb fought his way to King's Landing, broke down the gates and stormed the Red Keep, she would not be beaten and stripped before the court for his winnings. Not again. “I know court and line dances, I can even read poetry and write calligraphy. I am even capable of keeping a book of account.”

Chataya stared at her with her lovely dark eyes. “Tell me, sad girl, where is it that you've come by such rare skills?”

The words stuck in her throat.

“She was the maid of a courtesan,” Shae interrupted. She threw Sansa an unreadable look. “The woman left Braavos with barely anything but her jewels and coin.”

“She wasn't very knowledgeable of Westerosi customs, Lady Chataya. She employed me for the duration of her short stay. I'd previously been training to be a lady's maid,” as she was weaving the tale, more kept coming out. “I'm afraid the bread riot...took her. I've nowhere else.” 

“And whose lady were you first going to serve?” Chataya leaned back into a curved chair with arms that outstretched into paws.

“A lady in one of the minor noble houses in the Riverlands, but then the north declared war.” Sansa forced her hands to grip the cup. A fine shudder ran through her frame. “I was lucky when I was found during the strife, though my new lady was perhaps less lucky.” Her mind flipped through a memory of a lineage that traced its roots in Braavos. Arya had loved reading about Braavos. There had been a courtesan, Bellegere Otherys, who had been called the Black Pearl and had been a pirate queen, the mistress of Aegon the Unworthy. Black Pearl was a title that passed down to her descendents: Bellenora Otherys, Bellonara Otherys, and now Bellegere Otherys. “Bellonara; she took the name in honor of a previous Black Pearl.”

Chataya's brows raised. “Took it or was it bestowed?” 

“I cannot say for certain, Lady Chataya. I only know that she had been moderately successful in Braavos before she came here.” A fuzzy image of the nonexistent woman began to form in her mind's eye. “She had a taste for adventure and wanted to see Westeros.” Yes, her Lady Bellonara had been kind and funny, intelligent but ignorant of Westerosi customs. She was adventurous and loved horses. For some reason, her laugh reminded her of Arya's, the sister she didn't have.

Chataya looked interested now and she slowly assessed Sansa from the very tips of her toes to the top of her head. “What was your name, sad girl?” her voice had dropped to a low husk, a honeycomb made warm from sunlight.

“Alayne,” she said. She'd heard that name from somewhere. Shae came to sit next to Sansa and unwound one hand, the hand she'd bruised during the crush of the riot, to hold. “Alayne Rivers, my Lady.” Sansa left the cup on the table and curtsied. Even bruised and a little battered, her form was impeccable.

Chataya tapped one elegant finger against her lips. “You are a pretty one,” she remarked to herself. “Yet, while I commend you for all that you may be capable of, it brings me back to our first point: this is a brothel and you are not here to be a prostitute, my dear.”

“Could I entertain the – the visitors the ladies here may see to?” Sansa stumbled. “Perhaps sing to them, play cards, cyvasse, or pour their wine?”

Chataya smiled gently. “Are you a squire, sweet one?”

Sansa flushed. “Please,” she was not above begging. What did pride matter in the face of her life? She once had gone to her knees before King Joffrey to plead for her father's life, to beg that he be allowed to take the black instead. Joffrey had lied and had him killed anyway, but he was a vile, evil creature. Chataya wasn't evil; she was a merchant. Merchants could be reasoned with. Haggled with. She'd seen her mother do so when a peddler would come to Winterfell after a long journey from elsewhere, selling an array of exotic items. She knew ladies maids had to haggle for jewelry, kitchen staff for flour, and everyone else for every _thing_ else. She could – she could haggle for her life.

Chataya exhaled slowly. “Your previous lady was a courtesan from Braavos?”

Sansa nodded. “Yes.”

“And you can do all these things you say? Read and write, attend to numbers, sing and dance?” Chataya pressed. The softness of her features hardened.

“Yes, I can also embroider and sew my own dresses.”

Suddenly Chataya laughed. “Of course you can. You truly were training to be a lady's maid, weren't you, Alayne?”

Sansa smiled sweetly, let her nerves flee from her hands and face. A lady's courtesy was her armor. “Yes, Lady Chataya. Shall I embroider something for you? Or would you like me to sing?”

Chataya's eyes went from Sansa to Shae. “The kind thing to do would be to offer you a bed to sleep in, and food to eat, but yes. I want you to do all those things you claim you can do, Alayne. I don't buy wine without trying it.”

Sansa went cold.

Shae was fierce in her defense. “No fucking,” she insisted.

“No fucking, though why you think it is such a terrible thing saddens me, Alayne.” She gave her a look of pity. “Lovemaking is beautiful and wonderful. Whoever made you fear it so deserves to be thrown to the rats.” She waved a smoking golden ball of incense in the air, swinging it by its chain. Spice and sweetness poured from it. “If I am to be hiding you, I want to see what you are worth.”

A denial squirmed its way up her throat, but Chataya only held up a hand. “I don't want to know why you're hiding, or from who, or why your lady came to King's Landing. I only want to know what you're worth to my brothel. Sell yourself to me, Alayne. Tell me what you are worth, and I might be able to find a place for you here. Make me love you.”

Shae stood, still holding Sansa's hand. She gave her a wide eyed look and then looked down at Chataya who was still waiting. “Do you have a harp?”

The other woman looked further intrigued. She summoned a young girl, perhaps of around ten years old, to go fetch a harp, _any harp will do_. She pointed after the young girl. “She is learning how to talk to people, to entice them into conversation. She won't learn anything about lovemaking until she is of age. I don't let children into other beds under my roof.”

The girl brought back an old harp that was missing one of its strings.

Sell yourself to me, Alayne...tell me what you are worth.

Sansa steeled herself.  _I am Alayne Rivers, the bastard girl who decided to become a maid to a Braavosi courtesan. I learned how to charm people at her feet, how to dance and sing in High Valyrian from her_.  _She once told me the best courtesans never even needed to take off their clothes_. 

She danced around the richly decorated room, plush with Myrish carpets and velvet pillows, she twirled above soft fur throws and silken bed sheets. She sang Jenny of Oldstones and Chataya dabbed her wet eyes.

She plucked the heart of the harp so sweetly it was as though a songbird had taken residence in her very palms. She heard the pad of feet coming to a rest outside of Chataya's door. Her borrowed dress fluttered up around her ankles and her cloak parted to show more of her as she swayed to the music of her own making.

When she was done, she was flushed and her voice was a little hoarse, but Chataya had a hand to her breast. Shae gave Sansa a quick smile, so fleeting it was gone in a blink. But it was Chataya that held her attention. She clapped almost silently. “Do you hear that?” she asked in a whisper. Sansa shook her head slowly; she didn't hear anything at all. Chataya smiled and laughed. “Neither do I. My brothel has never been so quiet.” She swept her arms around her grandly. “That, my lovely Alayne, is a sound of  _love_.”

She stood and cupped Sansa's face in her hands. They were warm and smelled of vanilla and musk. She laid a kiss to her forehead. A sticky mark remained, invisible to her. “My little golden goose, I do not care where you came from.” She leaned back to take further stock of her. “You will be an entertainer, one of a kind. No fucking, but you will sing and dance whenever you are told. If my girls rip a very expensive gown, they will bring it to you to repair. Perhaps that will quieten their complaints about our seamstress's prices.” She smoothed her fingers through Sansa's hair. “You will help me once a week with my ledgers. I am talented enough with numbers myself, but I could do with a second pair of eyes. I don't trust men with my books. They lie and steal. Alayaya doesn't have the patience for it yet.” A thumb stroked beneath her eye and Sansa forced herself not to cry over how maternal it felt.

She continued, “You'll share a room with several other girls, of course. Not everyone sleeps here, mostly just the ones that don't make enough to live somewhere else. Myself and my daughter sleep here, but I don't have to worry about being bothered at all times of the day to attend to someone.” She gave Sansa a shrewd eye. “You will. If they want you to entertain them while they wait, you'll have to. It won't matter how tired or sore you are; if they want you to pour their wine and tell them all about Targaryen kings, you will.” She gripped Sansa's chin with a firm hand.

“Yes, Lady Chataya,” Sansa said obediently.

Chataya clucked her tongue. “Just Chataya. I don't want to offend any noblemen who may come here.” She ushered Sansa out the door and Shae followed. There were people loitering in the corridor, openly eavesdropping. Several men clapped and jeered, and Sansa flushed at what they said. Chataya laughed them off teasingly and walked down the hall. Sansa bowed her head and offered her gratitude to those that had enjoyed the music. One woman was completely bare and she averted her eyes quickly.

Shae kept a careful eye on the other woman and her hand hovered near where Sansa recalled she'd hidden that knife she'd used on the man that had chased her into the alley during the riot. She'd slit that man's throat.

“I'm afraid all my clothes are gone, Chataya,” Sansa remarked. She forced the image of the dying man from her mind. He'd torn her skirt and had tried to force himself on her while another man watched. Shae had killed both. She hadn't known before that just how fast she could be. Quick and silent as a cat. “The riot...”

Chataya waved a hand again. Two gold rings caught the light of the oil lamps and glinted like sunlight off water. Outside, it was dusk. The sky was bruised with purple and red; an oddly fitting banner that had overseen the riot. “The girls outgrow things or come to not care for their plainer dresses once they make money. Ask around and someone will give you theirs.”

It must be common for the older, more experienced girls to take the newer ones under their wing. At least Sansa had the advantage of not being their direct competition; her clients were only going to be the ones waiting on other women, or the ones who didn't desire flesh overmuch that night at all, though she supposed that if they were coming to this establishment, they had to. At least she would have clothes she could adjust herself. It would be difficult to do without a maid assisting her, but Sansa was just thankful she could get out of the temporary dress Shae had procured for her. It was gauzy and thin, something with an open back. It wasn't something she had ever worn before.

She was introduced to a solemn, golden-haired young woman called Marei. Marei had recently gained a patron who placed her in a tiny home away from the brothel, and so Sansa would be taking her bed.

The young woman was very quiet throughout the exchange. “I'll take Marei and get you some food, and see if there's any bath water left.” Chataya pointed to the bed. “We'll talk more in the morning, but you'll start in the afternoon tomorrow, understand?”

Sansa nodded mutely and sat on the edge of the bed. Shae sat beside her. The other two beds were empty. They were beds for sleeping in, and so they were small and cramped. They were nothing like the beds she'd gotten a glimpse of from the wide open doorways. At least she wouldn't have to see anything here.

“I should have run to the Riverlands,” Sansa whispered. “If I were brave I would have found another horse, or gone on foot, and found my family. I could have waited for Ser Dontos. He promised to help me flee King's Landing. It's why I've been going to the godswood. I've been meeting him. I don't go there to pray, truly. I don't think the gods care about prayers.” She covered her eyes with her hands. Had she doomed herself by following Shae out of the riot, fleeing all the way to the Street of Silk? Or was she doomed no matter where she chose to go, like a rat in a trap?

Shae gripped her arms and turned her around. “Go? Who would protect you on the road? Even before this war started, pretty ladies can't just go around riding alone on roads. There are bandits. Bad men who will hurt and rape you just because they can.”

“Like the men from the riot,” Sansa added. Her voice broke. She wasn't certain if it was because of the events of the day or all of her singing. She would need to tend to her voice carefully so she didn't ruin it.

Shae nodded grimly. “Your brother isn't the only king out there; there are those other two, too.”

“King Stannis, who holds the throne by rights if Joffrey really is a bastard, and King Renly who declared it for himself,” Sansa recited. Stannis hadn't managed to truly ally himself with anyone. He was joyless and grim, but he was by all rights next in line for the throne. Renly was handsome and charming, and Sansa had truly enjoyed what little of his company she'd been in. He had the love of the smallfolk and lords. He'd even made an alliance with the Tyrells through marriage. She'd even heard suspicions thrown around the court that Lord Balon Greyjoy might declare himself King of the Iron Islands. Pure speculation thus far, but not entirely out of the realm of possibility when one considered the rebellion that had led Theon to becoming her father's ward.

All but her brother were vying for the throne. She knew Joffrey to be cruel, but she knew nothing of any of the other kings. Robb and her lady mother were out of her reach. She couldn't trust anyone at court except Ser Dontos and Shae.

“Do you think Ser Dontos might've been able to get me out of King's Landing?” she asked. She wanted it not to be a lie the knight had given her in order to steal a few kisses from her.

Shae's lips thinned. “The drunkard?” She shook her head sharply and her dark curls bounced. “He wouldn't have been able to get you out of King's Landing. He stinks of wine most of the time and confuses everyone with everyone else. He's a fool.”

 _I saved him and made him a fool_ , Sansa thought. A creeping chill slithered its way to her belly. What if he'd been lying for someone else? A trick thought up by Cersei so she might prove just how treacherous she was, or just to see her squirm? She clenched her cloak with both hands. “Am I even safe now? I'm still in King's Landing.” Her breath was short, exaggerated and Shae's comforting hand on her back did nothing to help.

“You're Alayne Rivers and you work in a brothel. Who would even think to look for you here? Even if they saw you, would they know it was you?” Shae asked.

No, they wouldn't. She'd need to wear kohl around her eyes, and keep her hair dyed, and wear things she never would have dreamed she would as a lady. She would have to change some of her behavior as well. If another woman walked in front of her naked, Alayne Rivers couldn't avert her eyes the way Sansa Stark would. Sansa Stark was a noblewoman. Alayne Rivers was a bastard girl who had once been the maid to a Braavosi courtesan, who might have been considering taking her on as an apprentice.

No one would believe Sansa might survive on her own. That was her greatest, and only, defense.

Sansa's eyes met hers. “What about Lord Tyrion? Will you tell him?” She knew she was naive, but she wasn't stupid; she'd seen the way Shae and Tyrion had looked at each other. The unlikelihood of Shae getting the position as her maid upon her immediate arrival the same time Lord Tyrion arrived. His attempt of kindness towards her during a court beating, asking her to take on Shae as a maid despite having no training...

Shae hesitated. “No. He is good to me. But he loves his family.” She looked into her eyes. “If I told him, he'd tell them. You have to be careful here. You are hidden, but you have to learn to listen.”

Sansa knew that. She'd been doing it at court and within her own rooms. She'd been treading water with her head barely above the surface since she'd gotten to King's Landing. She would have to guard herself jealously.

“What about you? You won't be my maid anymore,” she realized.

Shae raised her eyebrow at her. “I've been taking care of myself before I ever met Lord Tyrion. I will be fine. It's not me the king and his mother want.”

“Will you stay here?” she asked.

“No. I'm going back to the Red Keep. I'll tell him I was separated from you in the crowds.” She stood and Sansa's heart pounded out a drumbeat against her ribs. It was a bird trapped in a cage that it couldn't help but hurtle itself at.

“I'm afraid,” she admitted. “I don't know what to do.”

Shae smiled softly. It was barely an articulated movement of her mouth. “Try. Survive. Like everyone else.”

“I'm not like everyone else,” Sansa replied. Her father had been beheaded and falsely accused of traitorous actions against the crown, her brother had been declared king in the north, and she had been regarded as a plaything for the Lannisters as well as a key to a kingdom that hated them. 

Shae's hands fell away from her and she shrugged on her soft grey woolen shawl. She heard Chataya and the other girl, Marei, coming back down the hall to them.

“You are now.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haven't written any fanfic in a while; i originally had this lying around to comment on works that only allowed people with accounts to comment. oh how times have changed. anyway, this is obviously canon divergent, if you don't like slow burn, this isn't the fic for you, ijs.
> 
> and yeah, shae saves sansa during the riot instead of sandor because fuck him. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	2. Chapter 2

 

Jon

 

Jon rolled an empty barrel aside to access the cask of wine below it. Lord Gregor and his son were thirsty, and he'd had no desire to listen to Bowen complain about Gared being a pig farmer. He'd heard him say the same damned thing near on a year. He'd always had to listen to the man complain about Jon, a boy younger than him and a lord's bastard, never having been a page.

It was as though the gods had given Bowen his life's purpose before he'd been born: to whine.

He felt bad about leaving Gared alone with him, but at least he was less likely to punch Bowen in the mouth. He had more patience for his rants and his envy. Jon filled the clay pitcher and carried it back. He could already hear Bowen moaning about pig shit.

 _Gods grant me patience_ , Jon thought. In the early days, when he'd first arrived at Ironrath, he'd briefly met Bowen who'd come to serve as a squire to Ser Norren Glenmore, a knighted lord from a minor noble house. Bowen had been fucking insufferable then as well. He'd gone on and on about being a page first, then a squire, and how he was older than Jon, and how it must be because he was Ned Stark's bastard son that he'd managed to become Lord Gregor's squire.

Then when Lord Rodrik took on Gared Tuttle when the northern campaign began, the complaining doubled.

Jon poured his lord wine and handed him a full cup. Gregor smiled. “Thank you, lad.” He waved him closer to the campfire where Ser Norren, Rodrik, and several men-at-arms were gathered. “I was just bragging about my squire's actions in the Whispering Wood. Not everyday a squire goes up against the Kingslayer and manages to win. And you fought well at Oxcross. You're a great swordsman in the making, Jon.”

“Thank you, my Lord, but Ser Jaime had cut down two other men and had fought his way to Lord Stark. He was weary by the time I fought him,” Jon said modestly. He was pleased that Lord Gregor thought so highly of him that he'd brought up his actions again, although to be at the center of his praise before others was slightly overwhelming. The less said about Oxcross the better, in his opinion.

Ser Norren scoffed. “It was a stroke of luck for the Kingslayer that you got there before me. I would have torn him apart.”

“Yes, Ser Norren, you were dreadfully fearsome when his horse was dragging you through the mud,” Rodrik drawled. The campfire erupted into laughter, including Norren, who took it with good humor.

“Well I got him off the bloody thing!” he barked. “Wine, boy.” He held out a cup and Bowen filled it. He retreated back to the table to stand beside Gared who was busily polishing Rodrik's armor. “At least Oxcross offered some fine fighting. I swung my sword so hard I nearly cleaved that man in two.”

“You did cleave that boy in two. And he was that: a boy,” Gregor said.

Jon left the light of the campfire and put the pitcher on the table. “I'd wondered where you ran off to. We were listening to the Kingslayer's defeat at your hands. _Again_ ,” Bowen emphasized. He gave Jon a narrow look. “I still can't believe you met him in single combat.”

“I think it was great, Jon. You're a really great swordsman. You might even make knight soon,” Gared interrupted.

Face to face with other men in his situation and hearing about his accomplishments being spoken about made him uncomfortable. “I got lucky and it happened months ago.” For his lord to be telling the tale again was only slightly embarrassing. It did give the north a needed advantage. Robb hadn't yet sent word to King's Landing to trade the Kingslayer for Sansa, but he did send off that Frey to negotiate peace terms. Thus far, the Kingslayer was in shackles, in a cage, filthy. He was just like a lame, old lion traveling mummers kept as a curiosity.

Bowen tsked. “Of course you got lucky. If the Kingslayer didn't have northmen coming at him from all sides to kill him, he certainly would have killed you.”

“True enough,” Jon agreed. Gared frowned at Bowen. Jon shrugged. He always appreciated Gared's friendship and support, but sometimes it was best to just ignore Bowen's baiting. He didn't need to throw himself into every single fight that appeared. Lord Gregor didn't upend a table when he'd been forced to work alongside Lord Ludd Whitehill.

Besides, it had come to blows once and it hadn't changed anything. He'd knocked him on his arse, but Lord Gregor had reprimanded him for letting his temper get the best of him. “You've got a hot temper for a northman, Jon,” he'd said once. “Like Asher.”

Bowen brushed his coat off. “At least Lord Gregor recognizes what you do. Ser Norren is fat, lazy, and a liar. I have no idea how he made knight when all he does is eat and shit.”

Jon chanced a glance at the lords. None needed attending, and none were paying attention. Rodrik used to be more at ease until Asher was sent away, but he'd never truly relaxed around those lower than him. Rodrik was lord's trueborn first son and heir, and he knew it. Asher had been the one that had enjoyed Jon's company the most. He'd been fiery in temper, difficult at times to calm, but Jon missed his humor and his lack of formality. Asher would have come over to gossip. Rodrik and Gregor wouldn't ignore a slight against nobility, no matter how well deserved it was, from lowborn squires.

“He's your master,” Gared hissed. He twisted a polishing rag in his hands.

Bowen sniffed. “I've been serving him for near on seven years and he's never once hinted at knighting me, or purchased proper equipment for me. You serve Lord Rodrik, the firstborn son of House Forrester and _Jon Snow_ serves the current Lord of Ironrath. You've only served since the north declared and Jon has been a squire for a lord for not even two years and there's already talk of knighting him.” He spat to the side. “I've got shit luck.”

Jon unsheathed Gregor's blade, Resolute, and took one of the oiling rags. He went to work slowly. He kept his father in mind as he stroked down the blade. The greatsword was one of the few Valyrian steel works left. The only other one he'd ever seen was Ice which had gone south with his father. It had been enormous, larger than Resolute. Tywin Lannister had stolen it and melted it down into two blades. Jon would never forgive him for it, or Joffrey Baratheon. He'd seen what he'd been when he'd strut into the Great Hall in Winterfell; a worthless shit.

If Jon ever saw either, he'd kill them, gladly.

“Compared to Olyvar Frey I don't think any of us are as lucky,” Gared jested.

Jon smirked. Olyvar was a good man and he was loyal to Robb. Even so, he didn't get to be the squire for the King in the North because he'd been exceptional beyond being a Frey. The Freys had demanded a queen, too.

“Oh fuck off, Gared.” Bowen crossed his arms, but his tone was lighter. “I don't envy him though; he has to be around King Robb's direwolf all the time. At least Ghost wanders into the woods more often than not.”

It was an ill kept secret that the direwolves made some of the men uneasy. Gared no longer minded Ghost since he'd dropped a fat rabbit at their feet.

“What do you suppose the queen will think of King Robb's offer?” Bowen looked to Jon for an answer.

The queen, what he saw of her when he'd visited Winterfell with Lord Gregor after a year in his service, had been less than pleasant. He'd heard her say what a shame it was that Bran lived. “She's Tywin Lannister's daughter. She won't agree.” She'd fight tooth and claw to hold the north, especially after what the crown had done to his father. They'd have to give Jaime Lannister up for Sansa.

“At least we've got the Kingslayer, and we drove Lannister forces back to Lannisport. Oxcross is just the beginning,” Bowen said confidently. “We're already raiding the westerlands, and King Robb sent off Lady Catelyn and Theon Greyjoy to make alliances.” His voice dropped. “And I heard from one of the washerwomen that there was a riot in King's Landing.”

Jon and Gared looked at each other, then at Bowen who had paused for dramatic effect.

“Well?” Gared prompted.

“The smallfolk rioted because they've got no bread. Nothing but dead cats and each other to eat. No food from the Riverlands and the Reach is starving them out.” He moved closer and continued in a hurried, hushed tone. “The crowd tore apart the High Septon and ate him alive, right in the streets. All the nobles were seeing Princess Myrcella off to Dorne and during the procession back, the smallfolk attacked.” He paused. “They were saying he was the mad king come again and they called the Imp “the demon monkey who whispers in his ear”. And there's a rumor - ” He stopped and looked at Jon as if he'd just noticed him, then he winced.

An urgent sense of dread began to fill him. It was ice water in his veins. “What is it, Bowen?”

The man opened his mouth and closed it, then opened it again. “Lady Sansa vanished during the riot. Some people say she changed into a wolf with bat wings and flew out the gate, damning the king to ruination. Others have said she used sorcery and made the smallfolk go mad to make them kill the king so she and the Imp could take the crown. There's even talk that she didn't vanish at all, and it's a ruse thought up by Tywin Lannister to hide her in King's Landing from Stannis's forces.”

A thought impressed itself into Jon's brain. _Or she was killed_. He didn't want to think about Sansa, his radiant red haired half-sister with a song on her lips, dead. He'd tried not to think about her while in Winterfell, in Ironrath, of her betrothal, of the way she'd smiled on the crown prince's arm. He certainly didn't want to think on her possible death.

Thoughts of her had always been laced with a unique kind of shame. He didn't want to attach a new type of grief to them as well.

There was still no word on Arya, who the north now knew to be missing and had been since before their father's murder. Lady Catelyn's enduring friendship with Lord Baelish proved to be useful, in what little ways he could offer assistance through information.

He had to believe Arya was safe; she had Needle and had a knack of befriending everyone. They'd find her, or maybe she'd find them first. She was fierce and she would survive. She was out there somewhere.

Jon let the conversation die. He knew Bowen hadn't meant to be thoughtless about the subject, but he found himself annoyed regardless. His movements were rougher, jerkier.

“Sorry,” Bowen murmured. He looked contrite and Jon gave him a short nod.

“Do you think the Iron Islands will really join the North?” Gared asked.

Jon blew out a long breath slowly. Robb had more faith in Theon than he did, nevermind Lady Catelyn who'd argued with her son until he'd forbade her from speaking more on the matter. He would have told Robb much the same as his mother, but he and Robb didn't truly speak much, if ever. Robb was a king leading the front of the so called War of the Five Kings, and Jon was just a bastard squire. It wouldn't do for his men to see him favoring his bastard brother. There'd be rumblings of the Blackfyre bastards. 

“They might,” Jon said finally. Theon had always boasted about his status and name in front of Jon, shoving it in his face that he had been able to dine with the rest of the Starks, that he was a trueborn son, that he would inherit something someday. Maybe Theon would convince his father to join Robb. Jon doubted it. He didn't think Theon really knew his father or the Iron Islands.

“How about King Renly? I've heard people like him,” Gared wondered aloud.

“Pfft,” Bowen scoffed. “Stannis is the military man. A commander. He held Storm's End during Robert's Rebellion and ate shoe leather and rats to hold out. He's the one we want. Renly is only worthwhile because he holds Storm's End now, and he's younger. He's more likely to let the north secede and he's got the Tyrells on his side. King Renly's never led anyone before. Competing in tourneys don't count as combat.”

On this, Jon was in agreement with Bowen. “He's right. King Stannis is better at leading men, and he's a fair, if hard, man. Renly doesn't have the experience Stannis has, but he might be more agreeable to King Robb's offer.”

He hoped neither King Stannis nor King Renly besieged the Red Keep without Robb beside them. Securing Sansa would be a priority if Robb were there. Throughout this, he saw men do terrible things. He'd seen a northman wearing House Cerwyn colors raping a westerlands woman during the Battle at Oxcross. One of the men in Robb's service, one of his own.

Jon's jaw clenched at the memory.

He'd killed him.

 

Sansa

 

Alayne woke to the sound of humming beside her. A young woman with red hair and an upturned nose stood in a slice of sunlight. Another tied a leather band beneath her breasts, pulled up, then crossed them over each other, and draped the ends over her shoulders to give the cords a final knot in the middle of her back. “Ouch. Cissy don't tie them so tight,” the red haired woman whined. It was Dancy, but she'd dyed her hair two nights previous. She used to have thick honey colored hair.

The one she called Cissy clucked her tongue loudly. She didn't recognize her. A new hopeful for the brothel, perhaps?

Alayne sat up and her braid fell over one shoulder. “You're up early, Dancy,” she remarked. Her throat was still thick with sleep and thoroughly still well worked from the last night's singing.

“Oh look who's awake. I was going to wake you, but Cissy was already up.” She jerked her head at the other girl. “D'you know her?” she asked.

Sansa shook her head and began to stretch; she lifted her arms over her head and arched her back, rolled her ankles and twisted her hips. “I don't believe we've met. I'm Alayne,” she greeted politely. She still hadn't quite mastered the informal manners of Alayne Rivers or a behavior that would be suitable to the environment she found herself in currently.

“Alayne,” Dancy drew out her name in a mocking tone, “is our little songbird. She doesn't have to fuck people for coin. She just bats her lashes and tweets a little tune.”

Cissy pulled a green silk dress over Dancy's head and tugged it so it fell to her feet. It opened in the front to her navel and was nearly translucent. The leather band was visible, but it looked exotic, which was certainly on purpose.

Cissy gave Sansa a disbelieving look. “I didn't think they let singers stay in brothels. My last one would have one sometimes, but they'd always leave before long.”

Sansa set her feet on the floor and pulled one of the dresses Jayde had given her in exchange for some embroider work out of a small box that had once held some kind of fruit she'd repurposed to store her clothing. The dress was beautiful, although the colors had faded some, and admittedly it wasn't entirely appropriate attire for a prostitute that worked in Chataya's brothel. It was a silk damask with dragonflies and sprigs of leaves.

“I sing, or play cards with the men, or cyvasse if they prefer it but I'm not very good at it. I pour their wine, talk to them.” Sansa untied her night shift and slipped it over her body. She reached for the plain corset she'd bargained for with Marei, who'd asked for a wide belt with flowers in return. “I help Chataya with her book of account weekly, though I've only done it once so far,” she said. The corset was too short for her, so she'd had to barter for materials to add a little length. Marei was shorter than she, and Sansa was still growing.

She forwent her hose. Hose wasn't typical here and King's Landing was too hot. It sounded like an excuse even in the privacy of her own mind, yet Sansa held tightly to the necessity of blending in as much as possible as soon as she could.

She washed her face with the communal bowl of water on the small tabletop.

Dancy opened a small jar of lip tincture and used her finger to trace her lips. She painted beyond the borders of her natural lips, for she had thin ones, to make them appear fuller and more enticing. Sansa also noted she tended to use that leather band to hold her breasts up higher instead of a bodice so she could still show more skin. It was a lot of effort when she needed to slip in and out of her clothes for her visitors, but Dancy dearly wanted a patron.

After Marei's patron had moved her out of the brothel, Dancy had become even more focused on catching the attention of a nobleman who might afford her a more lavish lifestyle.

Sansa believed Dancy saw her own position as beneath her, which it was, but also that she regarded Alayne as a possible threat. She knew her own face, the shape of her body beneath the gowns she wore, the sound of her voice; in a brothel, she was part of a quiet, private little territorial dispute that engulfed the lives of some of the prostitutes. It was something they were all trying to achieve; a patron and a means to live well beyond the brothel.

She wasn't quite certain how these battles were fought yet, but she noticed some of the various strategies and rivalries, the alliances and tolerances, the politics. It was a smaller world she inhabited now, but it spilled into the nobility with a keen ear and kept quite close to the smallfolk.

Dancy's battle strategy was to give her body the appearance of abundance where she had none and to push her way to the highest lord available. Sansa's thoughts felt unkind, even they were the truth, yet she could admire her tenacity. There was a certain steel in all these women; a sharpness that Sansa wished to take into herself.

 _If I am to survive this war and see my family again, I must be as keen as these women_.

Chataya's brothel differed from all others in many ways; the women here were better taken care of; they wore silk, bathed regularly, and had food in their bellies nightly. There was even a healer and a midwife who saw to the women as needed. Chataya's brothel also rarely saw men in the morning. From what she'd observed, they only poured in after lunch and all through the night. Noblemen in particular came under the cover of darkness through the secret passageway Chataya had hidden away. She was selective about who knew and could use it.

Sansa had yet to see it for herself. Alayaya was the one her mother sent off to greet the noblemen in that room.

Dancy fluffed her hair and drew one section across her breast. She weighed Cissy. “Is that all you have to wear?” she asked.

Cissy nodded. She pulled at her linen skirt common in other brothels.

Sansa had only briefly seen the other brothels and become intimately acquainted with just how truly lucky she had been that Chataya had accepted her. The other brothels were dirtier, there were no guards nearby and some of the women had to prowl the streets like stray cats, calling out for a mate.

Chataya had sent her on an excursion to purchase food and drink for the brothel that would be availed to the men as they waited or were otherwise entertained. The list she'd given her was vague and only referenced some shopkeeps, but not where they were located or at what rate they bought their goods. It hadn't occurred to Sansa until she'd been conversing with a stall owner that this was a test.

Sansa had noted on her first days as an entertainer, as she'd played an old harp and sang to the crowd of men entering, that they enjoyed a cup of wine or beer and something they could easily eat with their hands. There had never been anything particularly greasy like roasted meat or creamy cheese. There had been sweetened bread, crystallized ginger, peaches and apples, various biscuits and small desserts, dry cured meat. It was a good thing Sansa had been taught to be mindful of her surroundings as a lady, and that she'd been forced to hone the skill while under the boot of the Lannisters.

She'd brought back a carefully organized list of the things she'd bought from various stall owners and bakeries with the promise of delivery by the end of the next day. Chataya hadn't said anything, only took back the purse she'd given her, but she seemed pleased, as Sansa was told she would have to make sure everything was delivered as promised. If all went well, this might be added to her list of responsibilities. She'd passed her second test.

She had more work to do than the other girls in the brothel and she was paid far less, but she was safe, with a bed to sleep in and food to eat. Until she saved enough to purchase the service of sellswords who would take her to Riverrun so she could reunite with her family, she had to prove her worth to Chataya and the brothel.

Afterwards, Dancy had cornered her to warn her not to go walking around Flea Bottom, ever. The reasons why were terrifying. She didn't want to end up in a bowl of brown, although she dearly hoped the other girl was only making fun. She also had to be careful going outside at night. The men might try to entice her outdoors with coin, but she had to say no. The women of the street went missing and no one cared until their bodies turned up stinking in the hot sun, Dancy had told her sternly. “No leaving and wandering around. Your last lady might've been a courtesan but she was from Braavos. We're whores in King's Landing, Alayne; they don't care here unless you belong to a lord.”

Dancy was gruff with the girls, but she was sweet and playful with the men. She'd still been kind enough to warn her of the various dangers she could still find herself in. She'd also been the one to show her where she bought her hair dye.

Her own had immediately become runny after a single bath, for it was only clothing dye that Shae had stolen and dunked her in to avoid detection. Her red peeked through and Dancy had mistaken it for a poor attempt in dyeing her hair red rather than the brown fading.

She'd bought a thick paste of ash and walnut shells from the same seller Dancy had bought her red dye. She'd wondered if Dancy had only bought red because she'd thought Alayne had tried and failed to dye her own red, and as it was, she couldn't afford the red. Dark brown was luckily the cheapest sold. She would have to use it sparingly, though.

She had never been so utterly aware of coin before.

Without prompting Cissy tightened Sansa's corset with a yank. Winded, she pulled her shoulders back and breathed out a little so she might have some room. Without a proper stay and no bodice, she had to rely on the corset had for support. The boning was not as finely crafted as she was accustomed, but with the extra materials she'd be gleaning from the other girls' garments at the end of the week, she could adjust it.

Dancy came to her front, gave an approving nod, and fingered the dress she'd picked out before handing it over. Sansa slipped in, tugging at the long trailing sleeves. It fell to cover her ankles and she slid on a worn pair of silk slippers Alayaya had given her.

“You're all covered up, though,” Cissy said reprovingly. She touched the scalloped edges of the dress's collar. It swooped above her breasts, offering a peek of cleavage that Sansa had forced herself to be at ease with. Most of her dresses were similarly modest, or immodest depending on who was judging, but this dress in particular emphasized her chest.

Dancy waved her away. “Our Alayne isn't to be eaten, even if she is covered in honey.”

It was still too early for most of the prostitutes to even wake, others had yet to leave their homes or manses, and those that resided in the brothel but held their own rooms wouldn't be active until the afternoon. Now was a time of leisure.

Dancy and several other girls who didn't have rooms of their own yet, as they were younger or less popular, started working much earlier. They had to be more aggressive if they were to compete with the more desirable women.

Another facet of this life Sansa didn't have to directly concern herself with. She did, however, have to meet with the seamstress, pay the healer and midwife, and take inventory of their wine before afternoon.

She pulled her long hair into a simple braid and readied herself for her day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the warm reception! i'm so happy it was so well liked. i went back and edited minor things, nothing you need to reread (grammar and details). also: full disclosure i have nooo idea if people want me to respond to comments, or leave them be (i read them all several times and am just as happy as a pig in shit when i see a notification in my inbox), but know that i appreciate them all and will totally answer questions (it's just when i comment i don't expect a reply, but i know some authors reply to everything, some don't so just lmk what you prefer, i guess). 
> 
> this was meant to be a jon only chapter, but you know i'm just bad at focusing. the chapters will only be sansa or jon centric, or the chapters might split their POV up (as with here). not a lot of excitement yet, but i wanted to ease into their frames of mind and how they're shaping up.
> 
> regarding the timeline, quick reference: the riot of king's landing takes place earlier, so that's why it looks wonky. jon squired with gregor before the events of AGOT happened, but there'll be more on that later. love to hear your thoughts. 
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](https://redteabaron.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

He could taste it in his mouth. It was bright, dark taste like sun-warmed earth.

The man gurgled and went down, neck spraying blood across Jon's face. Behind him, Ghost was pulling out the entrails of his horse and eating the poor beast alive from within its belly. Its sides heaved and frothed with sweat. Jon swung his sword to where he approximated its heart would be. It gave a wheeze and fell limp.

More men clashed beyond the temporary silence he'd found in the battle. It was another castle Robb wanted, and so the north moved in to take them. Bowen hadn't been wrong. They were raiding the westerlands. It was an ugly word, raiding, yet there was no other word for what they were doing. Like the Ironborn, like the wildlings. Yet, this was righteous in the name of a just war against a tyrant. Honorable raiding. Had Father felt this undeniable weight around his neck as he'd fought his way south with Robert Baratheon at his side, as they tore through the Trident and stormed King's Landing, to overthrow a madman and save his sister? Had their forces done as Jon had seen his own brothers-in-arms do? He couldn't imagine they hadn't.

When he and Robb had played in the godswood, his favorites heroes were men of war, men who by all accounts had embraced it. It was foolish when he looked back on it. What does a boy know of war?

His moment of stillness left like a fist from his gut - a soldier ran at Jon, bellowing out a cry and swinging a morning star. Jon stepped away from its downward swing and it buried itself into the dirt. He yanked on it, but it was stuck for a moment too long and Jon opened his throat with a snake-quick slash. He fell and Jon met the next with a clash of blades, narrowly missing being crushed by a knight's horse as it fled riderless.

The roar of battle had deafened Jon when the war had first started. Now it was as easily ignored as the sound of another man pissing.

He'd never known what Ghost eating a man had sounded like until the war had begun. A man made the same noise as a deer under his jaws.

This one fought harder and his strikes were more skilled, but Jon caught him with a feint to his left, then aimed a blow at his knee. The soldier was older than him and he must've hit an older injury for how quickly he crumpled with a cry. Jon pierced the space made between helm and breastplate, but he couldn't manage to get his neck. The blade sunk into the base of his throat. He died choking on his own blood.

Ghost left the horse's corpse behind and bounded into the field. Ahead, he saw Ghost's aim; Lord Gregor was fighting one man and another had crept up behind him. Jon was too far to be of any help, but his direwolf wasn't.

The man went down with Ghost atop him and he shook him like a rabbit in a bush. Lord Gregor slew his opponent and turned to see him. “My Lord are you well?”

Lord Gregor panted for breath. He was winded and had a black eye, but he was unharmed. Jon felt a pang of sudden shame that he hadn't kept closer to his lord. He'd lost him earlier on the field, lost him in the unfeeling swing of his sword and effortless, untiring footwork. He was his squire, no matter where they were, and he should have been by his side.

“Help me find Rodrik. We were separated when someone released all those damned horses.” Gregor glanced at Ghost and the now silent man at his paws. “I have you and Ghost to look after me, but Rodrik only has Gared. Fine boy, but not quite the swordsman you are.”

Jon wasn't worried about Rodrik; he was a force to be reckoned with and he'd look after Gared.

They didn't find either until after the dust had settled and the fighting died with a whisper. The opposing forces yielded understandably quickly. They'd lost a good chunk of the men they had available, and there was no help coming from their neighbors. They'd been surprised by Robb's choice to avoid the Golden Tooth. The sister castle surrendered as well and Stark banners went up. Snarling direwolves taunted the rearing lions further south.

Rodrik had sustained a cut across his face, but it had already been tended to. Gared had a bruise blooming across his jaw, but he was proud of it. A token. He'd gotten it, apparently, when yanking a knight from his horse to defend Rodrik's flank and the knight had kicked him in the process. Bowen carried himself with a limp from a lucky stray arrow, but Ser Norren remained untouched.

Robb and the other lords had gathered for a small celebration feast in the larger of the two castles while the soldiers set up camp outside its walls. They were hopeful the final castle would concede without the need for a fight; the north had only stopped out of desperation for a restful night and food. The last fort, if they didn't resist, would provide supplies and a break from fighting. If not, Jon very much doubted some soldiers would mind taking it by force.

The prize, though, was to be Ashemark in just days' time.

 _Not even that long_ , Jon thought. He searched the camp over his cup of beer. The northerners wanted all the westerlands to bleed, no longer just for southron kings that didn't understand the north and vengeance for the murder of his father, but because war had released something in all of them. The men were restless and riled, like beasts that had spent too long cramped together in a cage. The washerwomen of the camps were busier than before and Jon found that they mostly left him alone now.

He wondered what they saw that made them stay away so.

Did they see his wolf reflected in him after a battle? A dire creature come down from the north to rend the south? Or was it only that he'd shrugged away their offers for so long they no longer found him worthwhile? It wasn't that he hadn't been tempted. He'd heard the noises through the tents, even sometimes in the woods or the fields, in stables. Sometimes he'd catch a flash of a naked breast that had escaped from loose clothing, the scent of musk, and he'd shamefully leave to himself. He'd almost had one of the camp followers. He'd been unable to do much but stand in front of her while she'd undressed and waited for him. Her red hair had been like a campfire, and she'd had a brusque, impatient quality about her. He'd bolted like a lamb seeing a hound when she'd reached for his cock, though. Man enough to kill, but a boy before women.

Lord Gregor had gone to sleep earlier and so Jon stood guard outside his tent alone while the guards sat drinking around a fire, telling stories about how many they'd killed, which camp follower was their favorite, how much they missed their wives and children. One had gone off with a black haired washerwoman.

Ghost lay at Jon's feet, devouring one of the chickens he'd nicked from a roasting spit. The noisy, greasy sounds of splintering bone and tearing meat made Jon think of the man Ghost had savaged earlier.

He heard the high pitched squeal of a woman and it sent his heart galloping. His head jerked up in the direction so quickly he felt a twinge in his neck. Ghost had stopped his feasting for a moment.

A woman with barely anything on stumbled alongside a soldier, giggling. She squealed again when he grabbed between her legs and she playfully batted at him.

Jon averted his stare. It was close to the pitch he'd heard the westerland woman crying out at the Oxcross. This was different. This woman was relaxed as she hung on the man's arm. Even still, he kept an ear out.

Jon somehow felt like a child and an old man all at once. He wished, not for the first time, that he might be allowed with the lords so he could speak with Robb about the campaign. He didn't know the way his men behaved as they continued on south. Jon did, though. He suspected most of the lords either didn't know or didn't care what happened, but Robb would.

But Jon wasn't a lord or a knight. He was only a bastard. The thought rankled. Even if he made knight, he'd still be a bastard. The cost of purchasing armor, weapons, a mount, and properly maintaining them was incredibly steep, to say nothing of owning land or even attaining a keep. Robb might grant one for his half-brother, but Jon would know it wouldn't feel earned if he did.

He'd already realized that when Lord Forrester took him on as a squire as a favor to his lord. He'd worked tirelessly to prove he deserved his place as a squire of a lord, and it wasn't only his blood. He was a Snow, but he had Stark blood, the blood of his father, and he had his pride. A bastard's kind of pride, maybe, to prove that he wasn't only relying on his father's get to make his way. He was determined to be worthy of the Stark name, nevermind that he'd never be one. He might never be king, but he could be worthy. He would be. They just had to win this war, save what family remained to them, and avenge their father.

They'd be on the march again by dawn, yet sleep felt impossible. There were nights that he closed his eyes and he could smell the battlefield, the ripeness of the dead left behind, the mice scuttling in the fields and grass, and his paws beneath him as he ran. Dreams like that had followed him even before the war.

During his first year at Ironrath he'd been plagued by strange dreams. He'd hesitated to even speak to Maester Ortengryn about them, fearing he might think him mad. The maester had been kind though, and unearthed a book from the Forrester library for him to read. _Dreams and What May Come_.

“There are those that believe dreams are a gateway to the eyes of the gods, showing us what may happen. Visions, of course, are what hunted the steps of the Targaryen lineage – among other things – and in the north we have green seers, wargs, all manner of things connected to sight and dreams. I myself have never met any of them so I cannot give you a personal account, but perhaps this book may ease your mind,” the maester had explained kindly.

Jon had read it cover to cover without any answers. There had been explanations of course, but they sounded fanciful and impossible.

Now, he dreamed of women screaming and begging, men dying, the smell of death and rot just as often as he dreamt of running and hunting. He dreamed of the other squires and soldiers who'd died on this long march, too.

During the Battle of the Camps, a young squire of about twelve had been unlucky enough to stray in the path of a mounted soldier. The soldier had run him down and the horse had trampled him into a smear in the grass. Jon had been teaching him how to properly hold a blade with permission from his lord. He'd only been teaching him for a matter of a few days before he'd died.

Armin. The boy's name had been Armin. He'd had a mother and a little sister he wanted to provide for once he was knighted. He'd sounded the way Jon himself had when he'd begged his father to tell him about his mother, how he'd wanted to find her and take care of her if she were still alive. Armin had reminded him of Arya and Bran, too. He'd only known him for a short time, but he'd been a piece of home Jon had ached for since he'd left Winterfell.

He'd also only been a boy.

“Jon,” a guard called out. Martyn, a soldier of House Forrester. “Go on. The king's said we march at dawn. Get some rest.” He'd returned from his time with the woman. He smelled of sweat and sex, and his tunic was crooked.

Jon drained the cup, set it to the side of a small stool, and unrolled a sleeping mat not far from his lord's tent. With the sky so clear and no hint of rain, not all of the tents had been staked. There was still a decent amount of bustle in the camp and the castle was merrily lit from within, holding in it the conquerors that had paid for its dowry with a pound of flesh. He heard feminine voices, the sultry call of women to men with coin in their pockets and unconsciously, he listened for a screech, the tearing of cloth, and pleading. There was none.

Sleep came uneasily, slowly, but it came.

When he woke, it felt like he hadn't slept at all. His eyes were crusted and his mouth dry, but Ghost nudged him insistently. He heard others moving about the camp quickly. The sun hadn't quite risen yet. Fingers of soft purples, blues, and golds crept through the thick fog.

He went to eat, although he had no appetite, and set about making a plate for Gregor; black bread, roast pork from the last night, dark beer, and a chunk of goat cheese that hadn't hardened yet in the night.

His lord often rose of his own accord, and spent the morning hours speaking with his son, writing letters to his wife and children, or reading. This morning found him with Rodrik and they quietly argued over a subject that had always inflamed son and father; Asher.

Jon kept his gaze low and left the trencher on a small table near them. They'd been up for some time; a candle burned between them and its wax formed a large puddle beneath it. “We can't afford war with the Whitehills, end of discussion.” Lord Gregor slapped a hand on the table between them. The candle flame flickered.

“Asher wrote to Mother about this, Father. Something is brewing in Essos - ”

“Rodrik. He's been exiled; if Ludd Whitehill ever found out we were still in contact with him, he'd run to Lord Bolton.”

“We're Stark bannermen, Father. A _Stark_ is king,” Rodrik emphasized impatiently.

“Aye, a Stark is king. He's not just our lord or Warden, now.” Gregor leaned forward. “Understand?”

Rodrik deflated, but nodded his acceptance. “Can I at least share what he wrote?” He hadn't even noticed Jon, yet, although Gregor took cursory notice of him. He allowed him to linger while Jon set about his usual duties silently. Polishing his lord's armor, airing out his leather padding, checking the sharpness of Resolute although he'd done it but a few days ago.

Gregor sighed. “Later,” he allowed reluctantly. “We've got other things to focus on; we don't need to worry about tidings from across the Narrow Sea as well.”

Rodrik dusted himself off and only just noticed Jon. He gave him a nod, Jon greeted him formally, and he left. Gregor began to tuck into his meal while Jon set about getting his armor prepared.

“King Robb has high hopes the other castle will surrender immediately. He's eager to take Ashemark. One of Tywin Lannister's bannermen is still holding the line there; his haven't been called back yet. Do you know which?” Gregor questioned casually.

“Lord Damon Marbrand, my lord.” Jon squinted while he tried recalling where his heir was. “His son is Addam Marbrand. He's well liked as a commander. He led the battle at the Green Fork.”

Gregor gave a nod. “Good.” He waited for a moment, then met Jon's eyes. “He won the Green Fork and took his fair share of hostages.”

Jon wet his lips and tried to keep his brow from scrunching. _Another lesson._ Jon considered what the purpose of the lesson was. It wasn't only unpredictability that Robb was aiming for in circumventing the Golden Tooth and the Old Lion himself; he needed to make the table less steady by sawing at its legs. Addam Marbrand was a fierce leader, a fearless fighter, and it was implied that Tywin Lannister trusted his judgment. They needed his morale lowered; they'd scored a hit against the Old Lion when they'd taken Jaime Lannister prisoner, but this arrow was meant for his trusted commander. If his victory over Roose Bolton had taught them anything, it was that he had potential to be dangerous.

“It isn't just about Ashemark. It's Addam Marbrand we want to falter,” Jon concluded. He wished he didn't sound so uncertain, somehow confident that Robb never felt this way.

Gregor didn't smile, but he gave him an approving look. “Well done. Morale wins as many wars as it loses. We just need him to stumble.”

He might never have the chance to bring it up to Robb. Lady Catelyn and even other lords had warned him from staying within the king's presence for long due to his status, but he did have the opportunity to speak to Lord Gregor about it. “My lord,” Jon hazarded. “I don't know who else to speak to about this but...I've seen the men commit – acts. Heinous crimes against defenseless men and women - ” He could still hear the westerland woman crying and shouting. He still saw the northman moving over her, and he felt it when his blade sank into the man's back, felt his foot push the body off to the side. The woman hadn't stopped weeping and refused his hand, curling away from him, pleading to the seven.

Gregor finished his breakfast with a long drink from his beer. “Jon. I'll only say this once. We are at war. When I fought during Robert's Rebellion, I saw men I've known my entire life do unspeakable things; raping, pillaging, killing. This is something terrible that happens again and again, every war, no matter how just it is; has a price. Soldiers don't make enough money on the pittance they're given. If you let loose hounds and never let them eat what they catch now and then, the hounds will eventually stop listening to you when you call. I don't agree with it, I never will. I've seen the way you look after some of our battles. It's a heavy burden, being a good man in a war.” Gregor stood and clasped his shoulder firmly. “Try to stay a good man, Jon. You can't fight off every injustice you see around you. You'll drown.” He gave his armor a critical look. “Have it ready soon, I'm to meet with the other lords and the king before we move.”

He clapped him on the back once and left.

Jon's jaw worked and tensed, but he polished the armor and checked its clasps thoroughly, his motions angry. He might not be able to stop everything he saw, but that didn't mean he wouldn't _try_. It was a part of what being a knight meant; defend the young and innocent, protect all women, be brave, be just. He wasn't a knight yet, but that didn't mean those words weren't his to live by. Even a bastard could have honor.

The host left some few behind to nest down, but left for the smaller castle in force. The fog hadn't dissipated at all. Jon was left struggling to see more than three men ahead of him. Lord Gregor was on horseback beside him, but the beast was a pale grey and seemed to vanish in the fog if he let it get too far ahead. Ghost was a ghost.

Robb's hope came true; the castle already had white banners and flags flapping in the morning breeze. Riders paced outside, each holding a white flag.

They descended on the castle, installing more of their own, raiding their supplies, and moving on. They were like a swarm of grain beetles. With each step, they came closer to Ashemark. The fog moved to curl beneath their ankles, thick and heavy like wool.

Ashemark wasn't so impressive, as castles went. The banner of burning trees snapped with the sound of an arrow leaving a bow. The field was left fairly desolate, and perhaps Lord Marbrand had been counting on the element of surprise despite the northern force's steady invasion of the westerlands. He didn't have Lannister forces behind him, and with the direction they'd taken, he had no support from the castles behind them. Even still, Jon admired the man's firm stance between the overwhelming numbers Robb had and his lord.

Marbrand archers used the cover of the hills to distract the foremost of Robb's host, and like another arm extending to swing at them, foot soldiers poured from behind another hill protecting their front lines and heads with wall shields. Pikes made an appearance through every gap, preparing to skewer those who got too close.

They'd managed to split the first few lines of their soldiers, but Robb and his lord commanders rallied; mounted cavalry rode to face the shielded phalanx, foot soldiers charged at the archers first followed by the rest. Even with Robb as part of the vanguard, he was still heavily guarded, and kept at a distance.

Jon stayed with his lord and protected his flank. He was a sight of blood and dirt, long lost fear and quiet simmering rage. His wolf reflected his feelings with every silent snarl and snap of his teeth. They were in the thick of it with Lord Gregor and Lord Rodrik. Gared even had a new steely determination about him.

The wash of battle cascaded over him like a roaring tide. It was only by chance that Jon saw him behind the rush Robb's army had to push through.

Lord Damon Marbrand rode on the back of a bay stallion and he had more grey in his hair than blond.

He pointed, yelled out orders, and Jon heard more clearly than he'd heard anything else in his life that they were preparing to launch catapults. He saw their distant shapes, hidden behind bales of hay on the far side of the castle. He couldn't guess their number. What was in them didn't matter; thoughts of jagged rock, burning oil, shit, dead animals, all flitted through his mind as he recalled his history lessons of the wars in Westeros. Ashemark wasn't large so it was doubtful the castle held more than two or three siege weapons, but it would only take a few well placed hits to potentially scatter Robb's army and take hostages. With the amount of banners surrounding Robb, Jon had little doubt what their target would be.

He barely glanced at his lord, who was fighting alongside his son and Gared and several Forrester men, when Jon and Ghost moved as one. Marbrand didn't have the men to spare to create a perimeter around himself as Robb and the other northern lords did. It would have to be enough for Jon to create an opening himself.

Jon killed a crossbowman, who had sought for refuge in a hastily dug trench alongside the dead, and took his weapon. He lined up a shot and took care not to lose sight of the fighting still taking place around him. Ghost streaked through the battlefield, lost in the low set fog, and the horses startled. Marbrand's bay reared back. The men jerked on their reins, shouting at one another to kill the dog, but Ghost was too agile.

The bay reared once more and Jon fired. The arrow sunk into the horse's chest and it squealed as it went to its knees. Marbrand was still in the saddle. Ghost harassed the other riders. One horse bolted wildly, another wouldn't stop rearing and pacing, and the final lashed out with its front hooves. Jon took aim again and missed, hitting it in its neck. It was enough for the beast to finally take leave of its senses, and the knight was flung off with a powerful buck. He landed wrong, and his horse reared again, smashing his chest in.

Jon left the crossbow behind and took up his sword once more. Marbrand was close. He hadn't given the signal for the catapults yet. The older man was struggling to hit Ghost with his sword and shouting out orders no one could hear. A bugle sounded, perhaps to gather the attention of the soldiers that their liege lord needed assistance, perhaps it was for the catapults.

Jon ran though his chest burned. His heart might burst.

The man finally saw him and his reddened face went pale. Ghost took the opening and closed his jaws around Marbrand's wrist, shaking him viciously and he cried out from pain.

Jon was upon him with a sword to his neck as Ghost gripped him tightly. Damon Marbrand stared up at him from his dead horse. Jon's sword bit into his skin and the lord flinched from its cold kiss. He studied the battlefield with exhaustion written into every crevice of his face. His men were dying and it was a lost cause. They both knew it. “I yield,” the old man's tone was listless.

Jon maneuvered himself so he could get the older man on his feet. “Sound it,” he ordered. Sweat dripped into his eye. One well placed arrow would kill him, but he had to make sure the catapults weren't used.

Lord Marbrand blew the horn even as his troops were pushed further back. Jon watched the skies warily for a rock to knock his brains from his head, but none came.

Marbrand clutched his bloody, useless hand to his chest.

He and Ghost marched Lord Marbrand back to Robb through throngs of northern forces. Marbrand's men scattered in the confusion, having heard only the one blare of a horn, but they had no leadership from their lord.

Marbrand was forced to his knees in front a dirtied Robb, Grey Wind snarling at his side. The old man spat the words out again before the king in the north. “I yield.”

Jon was lost in the roar of victory. The northern soldiers continued harassing Marbrand's men into a full retreat. A rider rode to the castle, demanding to speak with the castellan about the terms of surrender while they held Lord Marbrand. The hills were battered and bloodied, strewn with the dead. It made Jon sick to his stomach. The haze that had so easily come upon him just as quickly left.

Robb caught his eye through the crush of men and gave him a wide grin, exulted over another victory. Even as sick as he felt looking out over the field, Jon wanted his part in this recognized and in the same breath wanted nothing to do with it. Capturing Lord Damon had been his work, including stopping him from giving the signal to roll out the catapults. Yet, he was an old, defeated man who'd had no chance against an invading force. He was still the enemy, bannerman to a Lannister, and Jon wished for their deaths regardless. Was it wrong to not wish death on every man?

He wished he had the energy to smile back. He wished this victory didn't feel like guilt. The horn blared. Surrender.

Jon stood outside the ring of lords, pushed away from his brother, while they shouted, “KING IN THE NORTH!” He felt a twist of jealousy; he was the one who'd captured Lord Marbrand. He'd known what he'd planned on doing, yet there was no cry of congratulations for him. It was for his brother, who'd had the idea to avoid the Golden Tooth and pull the Lion's tail. But it was Jon who had reached Lord Marbrand and prevented the use of the strategically placed catapults that might have decimated their king and his honor guard. 

Jon alone had captured an enemy lord. An old man.

Grey Wind howled when white banners rolled out over the castle walls. Ghost remained as he was, silent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all the comments and kudos and those continuing to enjoy the fic! it really just makes my day to see something in my inbox. re: a couple of questions that i wanted to address here since i thought they were good points:  
> 1) is ygritte or dany a part of the story - ygritte isn't; she's firmly a fixture beyond the wall, and jon's path goes elsewhere. as for dany, she may very well appear much later (considering she's got a large spot in asoiaf) but her relationship with jon will likely be very different than what was portrayed in GOT.  
> 2) chataya's brothel is not in anyway affiliated with littlefinger - at least, he doesn't own it. as far as i'm aware and as far as the canon in this fic is concerned, chataya is the only owner of her brothel. 
> 
> regarding this chapter by large: i wanted to touch on parts of jon's arc that we see in the books; him learning to be more understanding, learning to lead from the bottom up, sympathizing and humanizing the enemy (where in this case it's much more personal; instead of the free folk we have the westermen), the horrors of war no matter whose side you're on. imo, it's an important part of his character buildup. there's less glory here for jon than for robb – sure jon may get knighted, but he's essentially a foot soldier whereas robb remains king. it's an important difference. also i wanted to build on what knighthood means, what the vows mean to jon vs pretty much every other knight in westeros with the few exceptions. i realize this was a heavily battle-focused chapter, something not a lot of people enjoy reading, and it is not my forte, but considering this is jon's arena, i felt it was important to show it and how it affects him.


	4. Chapter 4

 

_The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,_  
_and her kisses were warmer than spring._  
_But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,_  
_and its kiss was a terrible thing._

Alayne abandoned the pile of soft cushions in favor of a wide circular table topped with a dark purple velvet covering as a crowd slowly swelled around her. They smelled heavily of ale and sweat, but the clink of coin in their purses was loud, and therefore, she had reasoned, all other things had to be overlooked. One of the men had tried pulling her down on his lap, but she'd resisted with a smile and had eased her wrist from his grasp with the promise of a song. She'd fended off his increasingly persistent attentions earlier in the night until Sacha appeared and offered her bodily attentions. It was a relief when the other woman had escorted him away; she still lacked familiarity in her new position.

Once, Sansa had been the court's plaything. Just an amusement to cruelly bat about for a king and his queen mother. She had beguiled with her misery and enchanted with her tears. They had reveled in her humiliation.

She had to learn other methods with which to survive.

The men she entertained now were knights, the younger sons of minor lords, wealthy merchants, and foreign men from faraway places she had only ever heard of in books. They didn't like crying and pleading; they wanted softness, ardor, warmth. They might not have the opportunity to be treated as though they were special elsewhere, or perhaps they desired the companionship of a dream; a vision of their own making.

The other girls believed that she was too romantic, too sweet, but how else was she to act? She was in a position of privilege that allowed her to be different. She was something of her own creation, reflecting the wants of others as closely as she was capable of perceiving without completely capitulating to them.

“ _Save yourself some pain, girl, and give him what he wants,_ ” the Hound had once revealed a stratagem that had been integral to her survival, and still was.

“ _Life is not a song, sweetling. Someday you may learn that, to your sorrow_ ,” Lord Baelish had given her a warning and a prophecy.

She wasn't surrounded by enemies of her family, indeed she had no family currently, but their words were no less true. They were as necessary to her survival now as they had been to Sansa Stark. She had to adapt to the environment if she wanted to hide properly and it was one of the reasons she paid such close attention to the girls she lived with.

She didn't know if Chataya had told her to or if Alayaya had taken it upon herself out of kindness, but she often gave her advice. They were small, almost inconsequential, morsels that would otherwise seem useless to a person who didn't need to refashion themselves constantly. Sansa had been forced to adapt, Alayne had chosen to. The difference was distinct, but no less difficult. Alayne's world hadn't existed for very long, after all. Thankfully the other girls indulged her and had given her a little instruction to a world Sansa Stark had never imagined.

“Not all men are handsome. Some may be pretty or ugly, but each man has a feature unique to him. If a man's mouth is small, and his ears too big, and his face narrow like a weasel, then perhaps his eyes are as green as summer fields. Let yourself love his eyes, or his voice, his hands - ” Alayaya began during a short period of instruction in the very beginning when Alayne had found engaging some of the men a harrowing experience.

“His hands?” she had asked, brows raised in her confusion.

Alayaya had smiled, a curl of lips like the secretive grin of a cat. “A man's hands can tell you his life's story, Alayne.” She'd clasped their hands, fingers entwined. Her hands had been smooth, soft with nails like slices of almonds, perfect pale ovals. “They tell you if he is a hard man, or soft. They tell you if he is a scholar or a warrior, if he loves the sun or sea. His fingernails will whisper to you if he bathes often or not at all. His grip,” her hands released her and slid down her palms and Alayne had shivered, “will confess if he is kindly. The way he touches you will tell you if he is a good lover.”

Alayne had heeded her well and she searched for things about men that made them attractive. It became a game unknown to all but her. Some spoke eloquently, others more coarsely, some had accents she'd never before heard. She allowed herself to enjoy unique features, although there were those that made it difficult. That man who had barked at her to bare her chest to him and kiss him in a place he'd never ask a lady to in public, for instance, had been ugly. That his hair had been thick and black, his eyes a light green, and his teeth straight and white, didn't matter to her. He was foul, and the way he'd grabbed at Jayde was deplorable. She was a perfectly pleasant person and didn't need to be bullied so, even if he was paying her for a service.

_The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,_  
_in a voice that was sweet as a peach,_  
_But the Dornishman's blade had a song of its own,_  
_and a bite sharp and cold as a leech._

Alayne strummed the harp as she sang, letting her voice chart the instrument's course. One of the men near her legs, Jonah, hummed along and smiled at her fondly. He found her terribly charming, and he wasn't what Sansa might have considered handsome, but he was polite and kind. He enjoyed songcraft as much as she did. He'd requested a popular song of her choice. She would have chosen Florian and Jonquil, but it seemed inappropriate for the setting. He and his friends, Tam, Anders, and Runil were all enjoying the food and beverages, awaiting their turn with one of the women. They came for distraction and relief, affection as wanted and needed as water. So she'd chosen _The Dornishman's Wife,_ something a little bold, a little romantic. A balance between Sansa and who Alayne had to be. The men seemed pleased by the choice.

Tam wore House Rosby's coat of arms, ermine and three bold red chevrons, so Alayne was careful that not a trace of the north remained in her speech when she spoke to them. He had a lisp and his nose was crooked, but he had a loud laugh and frequently allowed himself to be part of his fellows' jokes.

Anders was quiet and didn't smile often, but he held a wry tongue and used it to gently mock his friends. He'd conspired with Alayne quietly about Tam's lack of ear when he'd attempted to sing. It had been enough to make her giggle. Anders and Runil wore House Rykker's coat of arms; two crossed warhammers against a backdrop of azure. Runil was mischievous and playful, quick to smile and laugh. He enjoyed all things fun, but not nastiness.

_As he lay on the ground with the darkness around,_  
_and the taste of his blood on his tongue,_  
_His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,_  
_and he smiled and he laughed and he sung,_

Her voice pitched lower and she timed her feet to swing with the rhythm of the song. She tilted her head and the careful arrangement of hair atop her head coiled around her ears elegantly. Everything had to be carefully created. It was a mummer's play they were a part of, a fantasy bought and paid for by those that patronized the brothel. They desired an escape from the outside world and the women provided it. The fantasy never belonged to them, however. “Love is nothing to be ashamed of,” Chataya had told her, “but in the end it is not for _us_ so much as we are for _it_.”

It was like playing at court, but her role was different. Or was it the same?

Alayne found it difficult to parse.

With her manners and courtesies, she charmed as she'd been taught. She'd have more offers of coin if she bedded any of them. For the time being though, she was far from a golden goose.

She didn't really know how to make money on her own. Few men who came to the brothel gave her anything at all though she entertained them throughout the night while they whiled away time.

Chataya gave her a roof over her head, food to eat, allowed her to avail herself to materials so she could dress as she pleased, and would even give her pennies for completing various tasks, but it wouldn't be enough if she wanted to purchase the service of sellswords.

How exactly was she to compete with the women who exchanged gold and silver for their bodies? Not to mention that Chataya would undoubtedly take a piece of whatever she might make, as was her right.

She would never see her mother and brothers again. She even missed Arya. Her wretched wildness, which had once caused Sansa an amount of grief as her elder, now curled in a place in her heart, wrenching at it now and then. She wanted her wild little sister. She wanted Bran who'd loved songs and stories as much as she had, she wanted Robb her brother not the king, she wanted little Rickon to hold, she wanted her mother, she wanted Jon her quiet half-brother, but most of all she yearned for her father. She hadn't been his favorite child, but he had loved her, loved her enough to confess to a treachery he'd never hatched and loved enough to die for her. Sometimes she still dreamed of his face, staring out at a jeering mass that had hated him blindly, and the dream would end with him meeting her eyes. He'd died on his knees, bleeding on the steps like a sacrifice to gods he didn't hold.

She couldn't accept not trying to reach what family remained to her, not after what she helped cause.

She wouldn't see them again if she didn't somehow make her way there. The open road was too dangerous to brave on her own. Arya might have survived it, but she wouldn't. At least Arya had her dancing teacher to look after her. He would keep her safe. Sansa had only had Septa Mordane, but Joffrey had taken her head for it.

She was not Sansa right now, though. _I'm Alayne, for only Alayne Rivers studied beneath a courtesan_. _Who else would I be?_ She lilted a final vocable before the last verses of the song. Her voice stretched across the noisy room and she made note that _The Dornishman's Wife_ had captured enough attention that it would warrant a return in the following nights.

_Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done,_  
_the Dornishman's taken my life,_  
_But what does it matter, for all men must die,_  
_and I've tasted the Dornishman's wife!"_

She blushed at the end of the song. It had a lovely sound, of course, but it was a little sad and scandalous. He'd died happily for having another man's wife but once.

“Oh Alayne, you sweet thing, look how red you've gotten,” Runil laughed. He slurped noisily at a juicy peach. “Sing _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ , it's my favorite.” He flipped a copper with one hand. She couldn't see whether it was a halfgroat or a penny. She hoped it was a halfgroat. Runil had a sense of generosity so it was possible.

“I don't know the words to that one,” she said honestly. She laid the harp on its side in her lap. She'd had it restrung and repaired and now it was truly her other half. Doing so had cost her a silver fish brooch. The harp was necessary to her new way of life in the way the brooch hadn't been. She'd still wept over its loss. A keepsake from her mother, who had loved the Riverlands so. It too was traded away so she could live.

At least Chataya had allowed her to keep the harp.

Runil smiled widely. “I'll teach you about the bear and maiden fair, Alayne.”

Jonah frowned and cuffed his ear. “Leave her be, Runil. It's a bawdy tune, Alayne. You needn't sing it.”

“She works in a brothel, Jonah. She might get a request, oughtn't we be the ones to teach her?” Runil asserted.

“Just the song, nothing else. Let's keep sweet Alayne sweet, hm?” Tam pushed his cheek onto his palm and his elbow wrinkled the velvet tablecloth. “Not everyday we have a lady with proper manners waiting on men like us, eh?” Alayne's breath caught, but Tam just kept smiling. “Bastard or no, whoever taught you, taught you proper, Alayne.”

She smiled and let her breath escape. He was only paying her compliment, that was all. It wasn't a thinly veiled threat; Tam was simply courteous. “Thank you, Ser.” Her heart fluttered restlessly like a butterfly battling against a strong wind. She pushed that panic down in a box and locked it tightly. There was no need for it here, and it wouldn't do her any good if he had meant it meanly; there were no heroes. _Well, except maybe Shae,_ she corrected herself.

Tam's ears went red with abashed pride. He was a hedge knight who'd only recently found employ with House Rosby, temporary as it might be. The bannermen of the Lannisters were hunting for more armored men. It was likely the first time he had sworn himself to a noble house. He often touched his sigil as if in disbelief.

Anders stood and kissed her knuckles after her drained his cup, his eyes drawn to the bottom of the stairs. “Thank you for the song, Alayne,” he said and swept away with one of the newly available girls. It was brown-eyed, curly haired Bess with a flower behind her ear. She kissed the air at Alayne, and she let herself blush again. She'd sewn Bess a silk flower so she might use that instead of constantly replacing dead ones. It was the very flower she wore now. It was an apple blossom; an unspoken prayer Alayne had stitched for Bess who had given her hair pins and slippers she no longer needed and asked for nothing in return for her charity.

“Oh Alayne,” Jonah said fondly. His hand remained at a proper distance from her, though he knew her to be a bastard. Even kind Tam had tried sliding a hand up her leg, but she found that bastard girls were treated differently by everyone. Jonah didn't want anything from her. He looked at her the way a man almost grown might regard a favored toy from boyhood. “You are a different sort.”

Sansa Stark of Winterfell would have basked in such a statement. Alayne Rivers was discovering otherwise; there were many kinds of people, but no one was singular even in songs.

Alayne still thanked Jonah anyway. He was genuine in his consideration towards her.

She leaned forward and her hair spilled around her. She hadn't earned enough money for oils or perfumes so it only smelled of the black soap Chataya kept on hand for guests or the girls that lived in the brothel. It was harsher than she was used to, but it kept her clean. “Will you teach me _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_? I should like to know how to sing it if anyone requests it.”

Tam poured himself more wine. “It'll make you blush, sweet Alayne.”

“Teach it to her!” one man from another table yelled. He was Tyroshi, with a pale purple beard and eyebrows, and a bald head. He'd slipped her dried apple slices soaked in wine after her first song of the evening.

“And then let 'er sing it! I want to hear sweet Alayne sing it!” a portly man bellowed. He wore a richly decorated tunic with large golden rings on his swollen fingers. He had been among the few that had been attended by one of the girls, but had come back down to listen to her sing.

Tam and Runil began to hum and sway, and they belted out _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ loudly. Other men joined in and soon the first floor of the brothel roared the lyrics of the song so sweet Alayne would sing it back to them. She did, but she didn't blush until Runil told her what the song was really about.

While Alayne had to keep late nights, she also had to keep early mornings. There was always something to do and Chataya had asked to see her right after she'd broken her fast with pickled ginger slices gifted to the brothel by a traveling merchant, soft bread, and sweet cheese.

Alayne stood in front of Chataya wringing her hands nervously. The action did nothing to settle her nerves. Chataya had done nothing to inspire distress, but Alayne was aware that her entire existence depended desperately on the other woman's trust in her as a “golden goose”. She had yet to prove that. She could only hope the woman had more patience than others she had known.

Chataya rapped her fingernails on her desk. “You overpaid for the ale and we won't see any sugared fruit for some time.”

Two days ago, she had sent her off on an errand. She'd made a critical error while bartering; the ale purchased was local and therefore should have been haggled to a lower price so the expensive wine wouldn't become a burden on the brothel's expenses. Men who drank ale in pleasure houses had little care for the taste; they only wanted to get drunk, therefore, taste could be sacrificed for quantity. Wine was savored, however. The sugared fruit was trickier; with the Reach cutting off King's Landing and the Riverlands' bounty unavailable, their vendors had to reach out to crops grown closer or fruit that had been shipped on blocks of ice from Dorne or Essos. She'd underestimated the amount of time it would take a small merchant ship to arrive with its cargo when she'd reserved a portion of it for the brothel.

When it arrived the brothel would be spilling out with blood oranges, spiked yellow sunfruit, petaled globes of custard eggs. Now? The brothel would have to wait nearly two weeks for fruit, and they'd used the last store of fruit the previous night.

Alayne's head dipped. Her body clenched in nervous anticipation and fear. “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry doesn't get me my gold back, Alayne. It doesn't put fruit in our storage. You aren't terrible at sums when you have the time. But out on the streets you have to be quicker about it. I know you can haggle; it's how you got your place here after all, despite not earning any money yet. You must be better at your sums, my dear. I'll allow this to slip just this once. I won't beggar you over it.” She leaned over the desk, across her open book of accounts, and she waited until Alayne looked her in the eye. “Be better. Quicker.”

Alayne nodded and thanked the gods that Chataya was forgiving. She wet her lips. It made what she knew she had to ask so much harder. She couldn't fail at this; there were no alternatives for her. “Chataya...I...I must ask for your advice.”

A full brow raised. “Is my advice so dreadful?”

“Oh, no, no. It is something that I find myself embarrassed to even need advice about,” she soothed. “I don't know how I may earn money. I am at a loss. It is very difficult to keep their attention, and even more so to coax more than pennies from them.” The pennies proved that she was capable of earning something, but it would take her several lifetimes to purchase sellswords of the honorable sort at the rate she was progressing. 

Chataya raised a papery, sweet smelling cylinder to her lips and lit the end with a candle. She slid a carved ceramic holder in the shape of an open mouthed dragon closer to her while she puffed. The smoke smelled of vanilla and spices Alayne couldn't pinpoint.

Chataya kept her eyes on her. “Your lady was an entertainer. Entertain.”

“I am,” Alayne insisted. “Only I haven't earned anything worthwhile.”

The older woman hummed thoughtfully. “Look who you're competing against, Alayne. My girls are all beautiful, lush, and love freely. Can you name a one among them that is unpleasant? You would make a king's ransom if you let them between your legs, but you have said you will not. The men who come to a brothel come for pleasure. What pleasure can you offer that they would prefer over a warm woman?”

Alayne tried not to let her eyes water but they burned nonetheless. Every night she sang until her throat ached, danced until her feet hurt, strummed until her fingers felt like they might bleed. Yet still, she only earned coppers. She felt useless, stupid. _Stupid girl, stupid, foolish girl._

Smoke curled out from Chataya's lips and out her nose when she went on. “I told you before you began to make me love you. You have to do the same with them. Your courtesan, was she only trained in the art of love?”

“No, she was an artist in every way,” Alayne said. It was only part of a lie, for her courtesan lady existed in her imagination and she was as real as any song.

“I meant it when I said that I saw in you a golden goose, Alayne. You will be one of a kind if you succeed. I wish you luck.” Chataya waved her away and pointed to a coin purse. “Purchase the week's necessities. Ask the girls if they have need anything. Take count carefully. You did fine the first time.” She rested her smoking stick behind the dragon so the lit tip poked out of its open mouth. “But Alayne,” she added quietly just as she was almost out the door, purse in hand, “even my generosity has its limits. Shae is a friend to this brothel, as is her lord, and that is part of my reason for taking you on. You must start earning your place here, too. Sewing things for the girls isn't why I allowed you to stay, and while you are a lovely distraction for the men while they wait, it isn't enough.” Her eyes were almost apologetic even if her voice was firm. Alayne couldn't hate her for it; she was already doing more than she knew for her, but the statement still made her quiver.

Where would she hide if she couldn't remain? Where would she go? Who would help her? Who would find her?

One of the girls thought she might be with child, so Alayne went to fetch the midwife first. She had to secure wine, dried meat, a variety of sweets and various things for guests to nibble on. The war raised prices, halted trade, and turned everyday items into luxury goods. Even the wealthy felt its effects. It made her undertaking in the brothel all the more demanding.

Sansa had never had to worry about food until she'd come to King's Landing. The queen or Joffrey might withhold some food from her with the excuse that she might get fat, but she had never worried about being hungry. Not until the bread riot, not until she went out among the smallfolk and saw it for herself.

The midwife was an old woman who lived in a section of housing near the Iron Gate. She had seen hundreds of births throughout her service, and had given birth to ten children herself if the rumors were to be believed. Her long whitish hair was gathered in a tight bun at the nape of her nape, but her brown eyes were clear of the blue tint of cataracts. Her hands were wrinkled, but strong. “Carrying hm?” she prompted as she gathered a pouch of things; mint, a lemon, a handful of dandelions, and nettles.

“She thinks so,” Alayne responded dutifully. “She says she hadn't had her moonblood, and she wakes up sickly.” Poor Lilie had been retching into the chamber pot all week.

The midwife clucked. “'Suppose only the men that want that belly will be seeing her for a time, unless she's just going to lose coin.” She gave Alayne a critical eye. “And you, your cycles are regular? Anything wrong?” She pushed a small cup of lukewarm tea at her and urged her to drink it. It tasted like raspberries. Alayne shook her head and the midwife huffed to herself, satisfied. She waved her out. “I'll leave now. Is she one of the ones that lives there? Yes? Good. I know the way, off with you girl. And mind the coin you've got in your purse. The smallfolk are still starving out there and the nobles are twittering about that war on, all nervous over that traitor's daughter, so the guards can't be arsed if someone gets pulled off the streets.”

Alayne set the cup down unsteadily. “The traitor's daughter? I heard she turned into a wolf with bat wings and flew away.” Her voice was almost a whimper.

The midwife stopped her fussing and gave her a long look. It told her she was a slow child and wouldn't be pitied for it. “Really,” she asked flatly.

Alayne nodded slowly. “That's what I heard.” _From the drunken son of a minor lord while he went on about how son and father would be reunited once the crown triumphed over the north. I wished he would die,_ she thought _._

The midwife's eyes rolled and she clucked her tongue. “Idiot,” she muttered. Whether she meant Alayne or whoever she had heard it from, she wasn't certain. “She didn't turn into a bloody wolf and fly away. The crown locked her away in the Maidenvault after the other one disappeared. They have to take care not to lose this one.”

Arya or Sansa? Which? “The youngest daughter?” Her heart throbbed with the mantra _not her, not her, please not her_.

“No, no. The other one, the king's betrothed. Can't very well marry a traitor's daughter, I suppose. That whole family will likely lose their seat once the king wins this war,” the midwife muttered absently.

It hit her harder than the mailed fist of a Kingsguard, stealing away all her air. “Locked away?” Alayne breathed. Arya had vanished and so had Sansa, so then who was in the vault where Baelor I Targaryen had locked away his sisters?

“Mm-hm.”

She didn't get to ask any more questions when the old woman left her little house and carried on her way to the brothel. Alayne swayed in the street and glanced up at the sky. It was pale blue and the sun stared down like an unforgiving eye. People grumbled when they went around her and she pressed a hand to the coin purse she'd slipped down the front of her dress, safely looped around a cord attached to the inside of her corset.

Sansa was still hunted, but she hadn't heard widespread gossip beyond fanciful, impossible things. It meant that this hunt was a quiet thing and that frightened her. Joffrey was cruel, but he could be stupid, too. The queen wasn't. If they had another Sansa locked away, did that mean they still believed the real one lived?

And if they thought she was alive, then this other girl was only a placeholder until they captured her – and they must believe they could. She hadn't escaped them as much as she had first assumed. She wished Shae would visit, but she hadn't seen her since she'd led her to the brothel.

She forced herself to move, but was unable to shake apprehension that had enfolded her in a tight embrace. It clutched her tightly even as she smiled and giggled, mimicking the flirtatious attitudes she'd witnessed in the brothel. None of the men or women noticed the way she felt inside; she was disguised in her own skin.

She was able to haggle down a price she herself had accidentally allowed to increase the last time she had purchased it from the same purveyor. Dried meat and hard cheeses were easy, as was the purchase of desserts, but some of the wine selections had thinned. The price of Arbor Gold had nearly doubled, but there were dryer red wines Alayne tasted that would do for the time being. A taste of Dornish sour had sent her in a coughing fit, so it was passed over.

She remained mindful of her tasks even as she obsessively puzzled over what the midwife had revealed. The eye of every guard she met seemed to recognize her, a murmur of this lord or that sent her into a silently panicked frenzy. Lord Tywin, the grandfather of Joffrey, was riding to meet the Young Wolf on the field, they said. A baker smacked his lips and offered her a piece of fried dough rolled in cinnamon while his wife offhandedly mentioned the girl kept in the tower.

Those that knew the girl was there swore she was Sansa Stark, once betrothed to King Joffrey. Locked away for her own good, they said. She did a dark magic and turned the people against their king, so it wasn't their fault or his, they said. She was beautiful and he meant to keep her all to himself, they said. The king had sent the Hound to recover her when she'd been lost in the riot and he'd slaughtered ten men to protect her, they said.

Alayne listened and the thought crushed all others that entered her mind like a wheel rolling down on a stone.

Who was the girl in the Maidenvault?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much to everyone who's enjoying the fic thus far. i am so relieved the last chapter went over well; it is necessary to his arc here, even if it can be grueling/depressing/uninteresting. thank you lovely people for sticking with me through it. there will be future combat scenes in his chapters, but as we get further south, they'll be less heavily focused (hopefully). 
> 
> a few comments brought up some good points, but i felt i should explain to everyone my thought process on it: jon and robb's relationship (no one seemed to have a problem with it, but i figure an explanation can't hurt, especially since i'm not showing anyone else's POV besides jon and sansa's) - their dynamic has shifted big time. i imagine robb might be a little more relaxed about it, but as we saw, he refused to trade jaime for sansa and arya, prioritized kingship. i figure he'd do the same with his relationship with jon. jon's always been very aware and ashamed of his status as a bastard; i'm leaning here to the belief that robb being king while he's a squire would probably shine an unwelcome light on that, to say nothing of catelyn and the other lords. i promise there will be more on them later in the future, just thought i'd throw out my thoughts and why they're written as estranged here. 
> 
> further thoughts: fully admit this chapter ran away from me. i'd meant it to be shorter, but i wanted to hone in on sansa's difficulty navigating a very different world than the one she's used to. she never used to think about making enough money to survive on her own, not to mention lying her way through a career she knows very little about (to say nothing of the huge difference between prostitutes in westeros and courtesans in essos, which is another challenge she has to balance). she's struggling to find her feet now, even if she's in a safer place. she's learning a lot and it's overwhelming for her since she's basically at a sink or swim stage. plus, rumors abound in KL.


	5. Chapter 5

He ran through a field carrying his blade aloft. It sang, it wept. The sky above was black and colorless, snow and ash fell to cover motionless bodies. It was red, red, red and black everywhere. He didn't remember where he was running to, but it burned in his heart like fire, hurt like a fist squeezing. The castle ahead was red and it glowed like an ember in the endless night. Seeing the red castle threatened to send him to his knees and in the vast distance that separated them, he could hear singing and weeping. Was it the blade? Or was the voice something else? It was familiar to him, but he felt he'd heard it years ago when he'd still been a green boy. An age ago.

His foot slipped and the mud and slush beneath him turned thick and gory. The dead had decayed while he hadn't been watching. An old man with a burning tree on his chest gasped like a fish on land. “You killed me, boy. You've taken it. Took it with blood,” he gasped. His head rolled off his shoulders but didn't bleed. He heard a thunderous crack and looked up to see the sky had lit up. It was on fire. Great flaming boulders had been launched from the catapults – he hadn't gotten there in time and where was Robb, where was everyone? He was too late. It was his fault.

The direwolf banners were gone, there was no army, or tents, or horses. Just Jon amid the corpses and the headless body. He looked up in time to see a boulder flying at him, but the dead sucked him down with them like quicksand and he couldn't avoid it.

Jon jerked awake to find Ghost tugging at his boot. His heart hammered out such a frantic pace it was was though it meant to burst, but after moments of heavy breathing, it settled. His hand remained curled around the hilt of his sword. Ghost and his red eyes saw through him. Jon slumped and clutched at the sword tightly.

It was the ancestral blade of House Marbrand, Hecatomb. The bastard blade bore no jewels as Jon might've expected something from the south to have, but it was still handsome. The pommel was plain and rounded, comfortable, but the grip required a steady, deft hand. Trailing vines and leaves aflame made it tricky to hold. The crossguard was simple and curved in a soft crescent like a frowning mouth.

After the sound defeat of Marbrand, Robb had claimed Ashemark, and declared Jon a champion of the north for his quick thinking. He got the congratulatory praises he'd desired after the immediate surrender of Lord Marbrand, but it filled him like a meal of cold water, filling and icy. Robb had gifted him with a blade from House Marbrand. “A prize fit for the champion of Ashemark,” his king told him solemnly while his brother slapped him on the back. It had almost felt like they were back at Winterfell, boys playing at heroes and monsters.

Lord Glover and Lord Forrester were among those that cheered the loudest for him.

Jon had bashfully taken his prize and felt its weight in his hand, its length, felt the grip bite his gloveless hand in warning. It was just barely too big for him to carry at his side, so he had to wear it on his back.

As he drank and ate his fill, closer to Robb than he had been for a long time, beside a proud Lord Gregor, with a smile he didn't bother to fight down, he had a thought that wouldn't leave him: _A prize fit for a conqueror_.

Jon held that blade now, felt it bite into his skin, but it was gentler. He was getting used to wielding it, or maybe it was becoming accustomed to a Snow instead of a Marbrand. Old Nan had had stories about Valyrian steel forged in magic and dragonfire, how the blades could think and feel. He liked to think that even with Ice melted down and in two separate blades, the hands that held them now would never swing them with the same ease his father had.

 _What does Hecatomb think of me_? Jon brushed the thought away and pushed himself up, strapping the sword on his back. He and Ghost came across Gared and Bowen in short order while he dug out a hunk of cheese and a thin fish stew with bread. He rolled his eyes. He could hear Bowen griping about something. Gared was staring past him at nothing. Jon hesitated to sit with them. Bowen had been insufferable after the taking of Ashemark, particularly so after Jon had been gifted Hecatomb, but he was still a friend. Not to mention that he'd feel bad if he left Gared on his own with him. Bowen's moods sometimes felt like the weather in the south; so hot it soured everything.

Ghost wandered off as he was wont to do, digging up voles or hunting rabbits.

Jon sat beside Gared in the middle of Bowen's rant. “...for once I'd love to see his fat arse fall off his damn horse,” he finished.

Ah. He was talking about Ser Norren.

“Mm-hm,” Gared responded absently. “Morning to you, Jon.”

“Good morning,” he replied. “Gared, Bowen.”

Bowen's eyes slid over to him slowly. He brightened and deflated at once. “Jon,” he said evenly. “Getting used to it?” he asked and then his mouth quirked into a smirk. “Champion of Ashemark, too short to have his bastard sword on his hip.”

Jon huffed but he let half a smile slip. It was better than what Ser Norren had told him after he'd been given Hecatomb. “A bastard sword for a bastard.” Even then, the older man's eyes had stayed on the sword hungrily. At his request, he'd allowed him to swing the blade, but the upraised edges of the leaves on the grip had shredded the skin at his hand. He'd quickly relinquished the sword, cursing loudly.

“Shut up, Bowen,” Gared said. “He earned it. Hector?” Gared stumbled over the sword's odd name.

Jon shook his head. “Hecatomb.”

He hadn't known what it meant until the castellan, a gracious prisoner, had told him. The combination of the Marbrand blazon, a burning tree, and their words _Burning_ _bright_ , the sword's name had left Jon with a sense of disquiet. The castellan had handed it to him at Robb's command, loot from the conquered, and despite himself, Jon's fingers had itched to wrap around it. He'd earned it. “Hecatomb. It means a great sacrifice for the gods,” the castellan had told him with the barest hint of a scowl.

The first time he'd swung it while practicing, the grip had torn him and drawn blood.

Gared's lips twisted. “Strange name.”

Jon shrugged and ate quickly. “Did Lord Rodrik tell you anything?” he asked. It was the same thing all the soldiers were wondering.

Since the end of the battle, the imprisonment of Lord Marbrand, and the uproar among the westerland noble houses, the northern forces had lingered at the castle. While it wasn't nearly as large as Winterfell, it was the most spacious of those that they'd taken. It had food, weapons, armor, horses, everything the northern army needed to resupply before they moved on. Admittedly, the heavier heat made the northmen uncomfortable – Jon and the other squires were well aware of how much beer, wine, and water was being consumed; they were going through it at a higher rate than had been anticipated.

Yet, they were still there nearly two weeks after. Robb and the lords were stalling. There had been no given reason. Jon doubted it was because the north simply needed rest. Bowen and Gared believed so, and so did some of the men at arms, but the longer they sat in Ashemark, the more time the ranks of the marching Lannister forces would converge and seek to funnel them. Possibly in the direction of the Golden Tooth.

Gared shook his head. “No, but you'll get to ask King Robb later?” he added helpfully.

Bowen sent him a dark look. “Can't you keep your mouth shut, man?”

Gared winced and they turned to Jon. He sat back and frowned. “What do you mean I can ask him later?” A bastard squire couldn't just walk up to a king for a simple audience, brother or no.

Bowen rolled his eyes. “Piss. There's talk that King Robb is going to have you sit in on a war council. After what happened with the Kingslayer and Lord Marbrand, he might have you on as an advisor with the other lords. So we've heard.”

His breakfast curdled low in his gut and he told himself it was because of nerves, because he was only a bastard squire, and it wasn't his place. He had no right to be raised as an equal to the lords of his trueborn Stark brother. It was because he wanted no part of it, and wouldn't diminish his brother's achievements even if he had played a key role in the taking of Ashemark. It was because he knew his place and he was no Stark. He was a Snow on a path to knighthood; a path of honor.

A part of him knew better though, and whispered _Blackfyre_.

Bowen seemed to think the same as he eyed him thoughtfully, but Gared was oblivious to the strange tension that had bubbled up. “I think it's great, Jon. Besides, bastard or not, he's your brother.” He leaned forward, his voice a hushed whisper. “You could be his right hand. Two Starks taking the south - ”

Jon flinched away as though struck. Gared had seen his heart, that dark place that beat a war drum within him, that snarled when Robb had been praised for taking the Kingslayer after Jon had beaten him or the cheers for the King in the North when it had been Snow that had taken Damon Marbrand hostage. “I'm no Stark,” he snapped. Gared's face dropped at his tone. “I'm a Snow. A bastard. If King Robb wants to speak to me then it probably has something to do with our brothers or sisters. Not - ” _being at his side during a war council, knighting me with a grand ceremony, granting me land and a title. I won't be the Daemon Blackfyre to his Daeron Targaryen_. _I won't._

“Sorry, Jon,” Gared said quietly. He looked down at his bowl awkwardly. “I didn't mean anything by it. I just thought it'd be like a story, that's all.”

“Fucking pig farmer,” Bowen muttered but it lacked any heat.

Jon wiped a hand down his face and his body bowed over as though he'd aged twenty years in the span of a moment. “It's alright, Gared. But you can't just – just say things like that.” Gared met his eyes and nodded. “It's dangerous. It puts thoughts in people's heads.” _Like mine_ , he added ruefully.

Even after they'd left the topic, an uncomfortable distance swelled between them, and not at all helped by Jon's plummeting mood as the day passed them by. He tended to his lord's horse, finished his formal correspondences to be sent north, cleaned Resolute, and Hecatomb, and finished various other smaller tasks Lord Gregor set him to. Jon had asked to join a hunting party – they were shooting at fowl and looking for rabbits – but he was denied. Instead, later in the day, Lord Gregor sat him down with a steady smile.

“Jon. You've no idea how far you've come from that boy that came to Ironrath. You were prideful and sullen, and you still are. There are things that men don't really outgrow; we just temper them. Like forging a blade, it takes time and effort, but the warps and whorls still remain.” Lord Gregor's eyes cast down for a brief moment. “When you were fending off Jaime Lannister, I was terrified he was going to run you through. I've seen you fight, but it was different. You were a boy in the training yard, or a soldier against other soldiers. Then I was seeing a boy battling the Kingslayer to protect his king. And you won.” He let out a little chuckle. “Then as we marched, you've shown...a kindness some wouldn't understand towards men we should hate, towards southron enemies who don't care a lick for the north. And then Ashemark.” Lord Gregor stopped talking and just looked at him, and it felt like his blue eyes were stripping him down to his bones to see what he was made of. “You left my side, made a plan of action and took Lord Marbrand, sparing us from whatever plot he'd cooked up with those catapults.”

Jon straightened. “Forgive me, my Lord. I know I shouldn't have left your side, but - ”

Gregor held up a hand. “Jon. I'm complimenting you.” His tone gained weight and his eyes narrowed. “You did what needed to be done.” His hand clasped Jon's shoulder. “The catapults would have caused chaos if they'd had time to be unleashed. Might've killed some of the lords,” he added with a wry smirk. “It might not be ideal, you leaving your lord behind, but this is war. Things are never ideal. They have a tendency to fall apart.”

Jon still felt a suggestion of shame even if Gregor's praise of his shrewd decision caused a swell of satisfaction.

“My point is, Jon, the king himself granted you an ancestral Valyrian sword from an enemy's House - ”

And that brought Jon back down to the ground, far from the indistinct shape of the dream he'd devised for his future self. Yes, a sword he'd earned for his actions, still given to him by his king – his brother – after they'd overwhelmed Ashemark. Its weight on his back was lighter and heavier than he'd ever imagined.

“ - and it brings me to my decision. I was never a knight. I took you on as a squire because Lord Eddard Stark asked it of me and I was honored. I was gladder still when I saw your mettle away from your lord father.” Lord Gregor rubbed his jaw. “I can't knight you myself. There are very few knights in the north, Jon. It's seen as a southron custom, although there are a great many northern men who have done things that earned the title in spirit regardless.”

Jon knew that his father had convinced Lord Forrester a year before he'd been sent to Ironrath to squire, that his father hadn't wanted the Night's Watch for him after he'd expressed his desire to take the black, and remove himself not only from the shame he'd been created in, but that he created himself. The conjured image came with sound and scent, so before he could examine it in depth, he shunted it from him. Dead or alive, she was far away. _Probably dead_ , he thought fleetingly. That too was shoved far away in the space of his mind he chose to be blind to but it left its marks before he did so.

He concentrated instead of what he was being told. The thought rankled; he was being told he was deserving of a title his lord couldn't give him. It wasn't as though he'd been unaware Lord Gregor hadn't been a knight, but his expectation now seemed removed from the reality of his situation. _Not so different from a Night's Watch brother after all_. Once it might've pleased him, as a boy who swore he didn't seek glory and would therefore dedicate himself to such an order. Now, he recognized his own lie. He would never have been entirely pleased or fulfilled. It was a hollow want; his road to knighthood had revealed truths about him that might've been otherwise hidden. He wanted. In the face of being told he might stay a squire – a perfectly respectable position, as he'd seen men twice his age take pride in it – he felt no gratitude.

“I spoke with the king regarding this matter, as he might have a knight at his side that he trusts to make an unbiased decision regarding your knighthood. Ser Brynden Tully has remarked on your actions at Ashemark. The king believes he would be willing to knight you.” Lord Gregor watched him.

And so suddenly, the pendulum swung in the opposite direction. Unbidden, some ugly thing clawed at his breast, and his jaw clenched. “Thank you, my Lord, but I can't accept it. He's King Robb's loyal bannerman, and his uncle by blood. People might think it was manipulated in my favor. That I convinced my king I deserved it, and he reached out to the Blackfish because I asked.” Despite himself, there was an edge to his tone, just a few degrees too sharp.

Lord Gregor's responding sigh was long and exasperated. “Jon, there will be people think that no matter how you distance yourself. You've proven a lot of them wrong at Ashemark, or when you met the Kingslayer in single combat. There are men you will never be able to sway, no matter what you do. They've made up their minds. This isn't about the pisspots that mutter about your status and relation to the king behind your back; I'm trying to help you negotiate a proper knighthood that you've earned. The Blackfish himself commended you.”

He was Lady Catelyn's uncle, and she had less than no love for Jon. He couldn't imagine why her uncle would be any different. It was his niece's honor that Lord Stark besmirched when he rode home carrying the son of another woman. How could he request Ser Brynden to knight him when his very existence had caused a schism early in her marriage? It would be taking advantage of his connection to the king if he did this. Jon looked down stubbornly. “I can't ask that of Ser Brynden or King Robb.” _I won't_.

“Don't be a fool, Jon Snow,” Lord Gregor snapped without a trace of patience. His lord's fist hit the small tabletop forcefully. “Your pride is in the wrong place. When you came to Ironrath you told me you wanted to dedicate yourself to vows that meant more than just words. This is what you've been working towards since you swore yourself into my service. You received praise from the lords after the capture of the Kingslayer, you received more for the capture of Lord Marbrand, and every day in between, before and after, now and then, you have shown exemplary traits that befit what a knight should be.” His lord wasn't the confidant or the kind mentor he'd become to Jon. This was Lord Forrester, of House Forrester, whose words were _Iron from ice_. “You aren't a boy anymore, Jon. Stop acting like one. The world isn't kind to men, and even less to boys. You are being offered knighthood by our king for your actions on the field and you want to turn aside his offer for what? Your pride? Tell me what your pride will get you, Jon Snow. Quickly.”

His tongue was a useless pink slug in his mouth in the face of his lord's admonishments. Frustration painted a flush down the back of his neck. His pride as a bastard had forced him to exert himself in every way possible to prove himself to Lord Forrester; familiarizing himself with weapons he'd never before wielded, studying the history of Westeros, its conflicts, lordly duties so he could assist his lord after Asher had been exiled and Rodrik had undertaken the full responsibility as the eldest and only heir near manhood after his brother had left, accounts, numbers -

His bastard pride had given him no choice _but_ to excel.

Yet, wasn't there a hint of wisdom in his lord's words? Lord Gregor was rarely cross and never lectured unless he had a point to make. Was he standing in his own way, was he the only one who doubted he'd earned a knighthood supported by his king? It made no sense, why would he be his own obstacle when this was what he wanted so badly?

He was pulled in two separate places at once; the boy who sullenly insisted he deserved his reward, but stomped his feet at the thought of anyone questioning whether he'd really deserved it or not, and then the man who wanted to kneel and feel the weight of a sword's blade on his shoulder, and the sacred words: _“Rise, Ser Jon,”_ but only if he was certain he had earned it.

He felt smaller beneath his lord's gaze, but he kept his shoulders back and his spine straight. “What do you think, my Lord?” He shifted in place, heard the comings and goings outside the tent.

The older man sighed again. “Jon,” he said almost gently, “I wouldn't have brought up the fact that I can't knight you to the king if I didn't think you weren't ready. King Robb was in full agreement with me.”

He hesitated a moment longer, “Would I have a moment with the king before he asks Ser Brynden?” It was probably inappropriate, but he needed to speak with his brother and his king. He had to know which one wanted him knighted: his brother who loved him, or his king who believed a bastard squire was worthy of knighthood granted by the Blackfish? Would that truly matter, though? Whether it was his brother or his king that desired him to be knighted, it didn't invalidate the facts that Jon himself knew: he had risen to the occasion twice and proved his caliber. Yet, there was a sullen bastard boy in his shadow, watching his trueborn brother being groomed to be Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell. He'd meant to be a lord, but then he became a king. Setting aside his concern regarding his brother and king, his agitation was concentrated on the idea of asking the Blackfish to knight him properly; kin to the woman he'd hurt the most, the one who had been so fully shamed for years in her own household, the one he expected only the worst from because she had expected the worst from him.

Lord Gregor's expression smoothed over and his tone was satisfied. “You're in luck. He wanted me to send you to him after we spoke.” He drank from a cup and wiped his mouth before he dismissed him. Jon lifted the tent flap slowly, conscious that his unhurried state had less to do with confidence and more with anxiety. Lord Gregor called out after him and he turned back briefly. His lord was solemn in face and tone before he spoke. “Think about what I said. War kills boys and births men. It's time to put away childish things.”

What were childish things to a man? Toy horses and soldiers? Playing heroes of old and declaring oneself the Lord of Winterfell? A boy indignant that he'd had to age quicker than his siblings, pushed into the shadows for the heir? Yet, men held wooden figures on a map to move forces and plan strategy. Men invoked the names Ryam Redwyne, Aemon the Dragonknight, King Aegon Targaryen as guiding lights for a dream, a vision. Men were loathe to step aside for a rightful claim when they felt they had been purloined of something they too wished for. The Blackfyre Rebellions were proof enough.

All things once innocent to him as a boy, so simple, were repeated in his emergence as a man in war. Was it just that innocence was no longer that, that it transformed itself like a mummer wiping the paint from his face to show what lay beneath the bright colors?

King Robb awaited him in his private room within Ashemark, as Olyvar Frey had directed him. His brother or the king? Were they two men inhabiting a body, or was it only Jon and his perception that had divided them in the first place?

“Enter,” Robb said. His voice mimicked Father's imperfectly. His voice wasn't as deep. There was something else too, it was delivered with more force than the late Lord Stark would have used. There was a lack of ease with command.

Robb leaned over an large map littered with figures of lion heads and wolves, stags and kraken. His clothing was dark leather and wool, but he'd forgone his heavy fur cloak. Even still, Jon saw an invisible weight press him down. He looked up at him with his Tully blue eyes and smiled. He walked over and embraced him. “Jon,” he greeted with a sigh.

Jon gripped his brother back and the ache that had never truly gone away announced itself in his chest. Something released in him; a fear he'd ignored for a while had banished itself. “King Robb,” he returned warmly. “You wished to see me?” There was a hint of dry incredulity to his voice; after all, they had barely spoken. Robb had most often kept Theon in his company during their time in the south until he'd sent him off on a mission.

Robb's smile faltered slightly. “Are you so shocked that I might want my brother's company? We've scarcely spoken since I saw you when I called the bannermen.”

They rarely spoke because one had been a lord riding for freedom and vengeance, and the other had been a bastard squire preparing to be part of the vanguard. They were brothers, family, and Jon would never leave Robb to face this alone, but they were different more than ever. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” pride for his brother surged at the same time his stomach swooped down and the words were warm but practiced, “much has changed.”

Robb stared back. He nodded finally. He was resigned to it, as Jon had been, but for Robb it wasn't a climb or a fight. It simply was. “Too right, but you don't have to call me Your Grace when it's just us, you know.”

Jon managed a smile and it felt real. He sunk into the feeling.

“Right. I expect Lord Forrester told you about my offer?” Robb asked. He didn't wait for Jon's confirmation before moving forward. “Ser Brynden was among those who praised you for Ashemark. If he weren't my mother's uncle, he might've already offered to knight you himself.”

“Did he only offer to after you spoke to him?” Jon asked, trying and failing to completely eliminate his dry tone.

Robb had the grace to look abashed. “He recognizes your actions, even if he has some...reservations about your mother,” he admitted.

Of course he did. “Robb...I don't want to be knighted because I've coerced it.” _It needs to be mine_ , he thought. _Something I earned not through blood, but because of what I've done_.

“It isn't coercion,” his brother defended. “I asked him what prevented him from offering and he told me it was because you were Father's bastard.”

 _I'm a son_ , he thought. _A son_. It was one thing to think about it himself, another to hear someone else speak it. Even so, Robb had never thought of him as anything less than his brother. “You can't force someone - ”

“I asked him if he would, and if he didn't want to, then to help me find another knight who would.” Robb's hand gripped his shoulder and just like that, they were boys in the training yard congratulating one another after sparring. “He volunteered. He knows you've earned this. Ser Jon the White Wolf,” Robb declared to his otherwise empty room.

The very name made Jon's heart skip a beat. Some men at the age of forty remained squires because they'd never done anything notable, yet he was poised to be knighted at nineteen. He thought of Lady Catelyn's forever disapproving, cold face, and felt a dark satisfaction. On the tail of that, he was ashamed he didn't feel sorry for her. It didn't matter that Ser Brynden was her kin; this was what he'd wanted, this was his due. “Thank you, Robb,” he breathed.

Robb gave his shoulder a little shake, laughing. “Good. It's good to see you smile for once, Snow.”

“You always said I was too serious,” Jon returned graciously. “Was there something else you wanted to speak about?”

There was an awkwardness to Robb that might've been cultivated in their time apart or maybe had been borne of what else he had yet to speak of.

Robb turned his attention to the map in the middle of the table, knocking the surface with a wordless rap of his knuckles.

“The Crag?” Jon wondered aloud. He expected the Crag, but that was no explanation for the time they'd spent in Ashemark.

Robb nodded, eyes on the map. “We have an advantage in the westerlands. Tywin is marching to Riverrun. If we press now, we'll either force him to divide his forces or he'll retreat to meet us with all of his strength. He won't double back now though, he's already moving in the Riverlands.”

Jon regarded the map intently. “If he splits his forces would they station themselves at the Golden Tooth before attacking?” If so, they might unleash a pronged attack which had potential to split Robb's army – Casterly Rock wasn't terribly far, and if they remained at the Golden Tooth, they could herd them further south right into the lion's jaws.

Robb nodded. “We take the Crag at night. There's a gate and we've a fair amount of men who are climbers. Grandfather is preparing to wait out a siege, so once Tywin passes Pinkmaiden,” he gestured to a toy wooden knight that served as a marker, “we storm the Crag. If he's marching in full force, the old lion won't want to stop until he's cut off our retreat.”

His brother had chosen to avoid the Golden Tooth while the westerlands was at strength and picked less obvious targets that otherwise would have provided support to any castles under siege. His entire campaign against the westerlands had been focused on bludgeoning Tywin's stability before making any contact. “You're not aiming for the Rock first. Lannisport,” he realized. It wasn't as prestigious and wouldn't be the same blow to their spirits, but it was an enormous port with ties to the crown as well as the Lannister family.

Robb grimaced. “Risky, yet if we attempt to take the Rock – there's hundreds of mine shafts, caverns we don't know about. It would be ripe for traps and scaling the bloody thing would be impossible.”

Jon absorbed that and pinched his eyes shut. “We killed the green boys at Oxcross and they retreated.” Mentally he tallied the odds. Better than he assumed, poorer than he liked. “Lannisport is walled. We need - ”

“A fleet, I know. Theon is meant to be coordinating with his father regarding this.”

“He's taking his time,” Jon muttered.

“I know,” Robb agreed grimly.

Jon expected his brother to defend his friend and was surprised when none came. “With Renly dead,” Robb went on abruptly, “there have been rumors that Highgarden may seek to broker peace with the crown. His wife, Margaery Tyrell, is still a maid. She may marry into the crown, possibly through Tyrion Lannister. Which means they'll have provisions again and King's Landing will be free to focus on external defenses instead of bringing those within their walls to heel.”

“Your Grace,” he began even though Robb gave him an inscrutable look, “has Theon sent any word?”

Tension built in the small room, and Robb's intense gaze could have speared through him and the wall. “We've received more news from Winterfell. Roose Bolton's bastard forced Lady Hornwood to marry him and then he locked her away to starve to death in a tower. There were accounts of peasant girls flayed and killed by hounds he trained himself. Ser Rodrik Cassel executed him and is bringing his helper before Bran to confess anything else he might have done. The Night's Watch is requesting men we don't have; apparently there may been an army of wildlings bearing down on them soon at the Wall. And...there have been raids near Torrhen's Square, seen moving north.”

Jon leaned back and his hand made a fist. “Ironborn,” he said flatly.

“They could just be brigands taking advantage of the opportunity.” Robb's hand wiped down his face slowly. He wasn't entirely in denial about it, but he wasn't as accepting of the possibility as Jon – Theon had been Robb's brother, not his.

The thought of Theon possibly betraying them for a father he didn't even know – to the Starks who had treated him as family, who had by large welcomed him as one of them, who had been treated better than Jon had at times due to his status as a lord's trueborn son – threatened to choke him. It was a blaze in the back of his throat and eyes. It burned too, in his hands that ached to hold Hecatomb and somehow find Theon to demand the truth from him. Perhaps it was an action by raiders divorced from Balon Greyjoy, from Theon's supposed arrival at Pyke's Peak, but Jon didn't believe in coincidence. He'd been at war too long to be naive of the machinations of men. “This is why we've remained here.” The words felt thick on his tongue and uselessly obvious. He didn't need to look at his brother to know he was nodding. _We are waiting for a fleet that won't come_ , Jon thought.

“I wanted to wait to take the Crag, but Ashemark fell more quickly than I'd expected. We are in a position where if we wait, then we lose the opportunity to push further, and if we leave immediately, we risk being trapped.” Robb tapped a finger on the map, eyes darting from figure to figure restlessly.

The risk of staying outweighed the risk of venturing out; entrapment could happen regardless, but he was right. They risked stagnating while the world continued without them. Sitting in a castle wouldn't help them in the long run. Taking the Crag would allow the north to encircle Casterly Rock and Lannisport. Of course that didn't matter if Theon hadn't secured his father's ships.

“Robb, if Tywin marches on Riverrun, mightn't we attack their flank once they position themselves to siege? They're razing the Riverlands as they go. If he's focusing on removing Riverrun as a point of retreat and he expects you to push further south - ”

His king frowned. “No. We press our advantage and continue moving south. We take Lannisport. Grandfather will be able to withstand them, and if we take Lannisport they'll have to face starvation and we won't. It'll lessen any chances of an insurrection once we siege Casterly Rock.”

Unable to contain himself, beneath the growing discomfort and grim realizations of their situations, Jon blurted: “How? The walls around that port alone - ”

Robb shot him a look that expressly detailed just how much he appreciated that interruption and Jon's mouth fell closed reluctantly. It stung, as it had always stung, to be in the presence of those born in nobility. Even as children, when Robb had said he couldn't be the Lord of Winterfell because he was a bastard, it had stung. Was it the boy that was stung, or the man? “We need the Crag before we take Lannisport; the Westerlings are among their most principled bannermen, and they have history with the Lannisters that dates back since the Age of Heroes. We need his morale to fail him or we lose. This isn't his first war, but it is mine. We have to keep up the momentum.”

It was like being stuck in a small room with Maester Luwin again while he and Robb took their studies together. In history, Robb was better at remembering the Houses and their various connections, and he'd managed to triumph over Jon in cyvasse. He had a natural knack for devising unusual tactics. It had been some of those shining, doting moments Lady Catelyn had brushed Robb's hair back with a tenderness Jon had never felt from anyone but Old Nan. Jon's strengths had been recalling wartime strategies, observation, and adaptation – he learned from Robb's victories at cyvasse and an Essosi game called The Lord's Gambit, and used that to later outwit Robb. Where Robb was a natural commander on the field, he couldn't modify his plans in crucial moments the way Jon could.

The Crag was necessary, not just to prevent Tywin Lannister from decimating the northern forces if he decided to leave Riverrun and herd them to the Golden Tooth, but because of what the Crag held. As an old seat in the westerlands, even if it was little better than a pile of rubble, it had one thing, perhaps the only thing Robb saw that might play the surrogate to the Ironborn fleet. Siege weapons. If he recalled correctly, House Westerling had hoarded them and had so often commissioned them several generations past, that it had contributed to their decline.

If they were lucky, the Westerlings had maintained them to their detriment. If they weren't, they'd been dismantled or left to rot under sea air and sun. Jon nodded in understanding, though he was still worried over what happened if the Crag didn't hold what they'd need to move on to Lannisport, or if Theon hadn't gotten Robb his alliance. He was so lost in staring at the map that he missed Robb's torn features.

“Apparently Sansa never vanished at all,” Robb said suddenly. “She's been put in the Maidenvault, for her own protection after the riot. Mother wrote me.” His lips twisted. “Though it's unclear whether or not her engagement to Joffrey is officially broken.”

All the breath in his body nearly left at once. He'd dreamt of her and Arya when he didn't dream of battlefields. In them, Arya was always running, but Sansa was hidden, or dead on stone steps like his father. But she was alive, sequestered away like a Silent Sister, but alive. Alive and in the hands of the enemy they were trying to break. “Trade for her,” he rasped when he breathed again.

“Trade what?” Robb asked. His gaze was steady, even if his color was paler, his mouth pinched. Jon didn't want to think of it, didn't want to consider that this might be his choice. He wanted to believe that he was simply ruminating over entirely too much to understand Jon's point, but this was the king looking at him. Not his brother.

“Your Grace, we have the Kingslayer in our custody. We can trade the king's uncle for your sister,” the words tumbled out numbly. He felt cold, so cold it burned. He thought of Sansa with her red hair, and the shame that was forever entwined with thoughts of her was outshone by the building dread he felt now. The hope he'd held that she lived and that the rumor was only that, a cruel rumor, fought for dominance with his apprehension that he would still never see her again. He'd never meant to see her again when he left, but things were different; she was in danger and he was at war.

“If it was Father we were negotiating for, I would.” He tapped unceasingly on the map. “But we have no way of knowing whether he will still marry her, or they might marry her off to another Lannister. I've written her from my will,” Robb's confession was quiet, regretful, yet there was not a trace of it on his face. He was carved from stone and ice. “If they marry her off, whoever might be her husband would have a legitimate claim to Winterfell.”

“I know,” Jon said, almost spat, “All the more reason to get her. She is our family, Your Grace, we can't leave her there.”

Robb didn't move, but his presence seemed larger, he was taller and broader. “Bran is still my heir until I marry, Arya has vanished, and Sansa is in the Maidenvault likely waiting for a wedding. I – the north – cannot spare anyone for a fool's quest to smuggle her out.”

“So we leave her there? She is a prisoner - ”

“Don't. She is my sister too, don't think I've forgotten that but she is in the Maidenvault, locked away. I cannot be her brother, not now,” Robb growled, breathing as though he'd just finished in the training yard after a long day.

Brother or king? Boy or man? Robb had chosen.

“We can't leave her there,” Jon insisted through the tight clench of his teeth. They squeaked under the pressure and he felt that blaze burn down his spine, imagined it might come from Hecatomb still lashed to his back.

Robb didn't speak for a long time, but when he did, his brother was long gone. The King in the North answered: “If we send anyone to steal her, and if they find out, they will kill her anyway because they'll assume treason. Or she'll tell them that whoever was sent means to take her.”

“We can't know why she wrote that letter, Your Grace.” It was getting harder to not shake him as he would have if he'd been his brother.

“No, we can't. We only know that she wrote it.” Robb broke eye contact for a bare second. “We can't put the north's independence at jeopardy for her. She's only one person, and a girl at that.”

It was his final decision, Jon realized. He wondered if Robb had written his mother a similar answer. “Your plan regarding Lannisport and the Crag is sound, Your Grace,” he said vacantly. He thought of the women who had died by Lannister hands in the Red Keep simply because they'd been related to the men at war with them. Queen Elia, raped and cut in two, Rhaenys Targaryen stabbed half a hundred times. He thought of Sansa with her red hair in a red castle, singing and weeping. He thought of her cut in two like Queen Elia, left in the Maidenvault.

“And our sister?” Robb challenged. His eyes were ringed in red. This cost him too, but not as much as it could cost Sansa. Arya, lost in the wild, Sansa, imprisoned with lions all around her.

“It is as you command, Your Grace.” He left with barely a parting bow that surely would have earned him a reprimand, but fear and anger boiled in his belly, his heart. Arya was in the wind, but Sansa was there. They could potentially reach her. She was in a tower, waiting. Did she dream that someone would come for her, or was she disillusioned by Father's death and assumed she would die in King's Landing, or be married off to a mad boy king? Even so, Jon couldn't deny the risk – risks that would have given anyone pause with good reason, but they had Tywin's son and uncle to the bastard king. They had a chance to bring her home. It wasn't just Jon's selfishness that turned in that direction, it was linked to the idea of leaving another Stark south, of the idea that the Lannisters would want Winterfell for themselves if the king didn't marry her himself.

Whatever he'd felt may not be what he felt if he ever saw her again. A boy had felt such disgust and self-reproach in light of realizing that foul attraction, calling to mind Targaryen preferences, that it had been enough for him to contemplate a life in honorable exile. What he felt might've evaporated, kept alive only because it was a thread to a different life. As a man he would only feel relief upon seeing his half-sister again. The man didn't have to follow the boy. An image of the redheaded camp follower Jon had fled from drifted through his thoughts and he nearly bit his tongue.

He attended daily tasks with a single-mindedness that he was surprised when he was summoned.

At dusk the Blackfish stood before him. Lord Gregor and Lord Rodrik, and King Robb, and a collection of other lords watched the proceedings. The Blackfish stared a hole through his head as he spoke to him for the first time. His voice was unfriendly, but not hostile. There was no emotion on his face for Jon to pick apart. “Kneel, boy.” Jon knelt, still felt the bite of roiling rage beneath his skin that he couldn't let anyone see, and then the old man rested his sword tip on his shoulder. “Jon Snow, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

Jon thought of the crying westerland woman beneath the soldier from House Cerwyn, of Lord Marbrand in chains, of Hecatomb across his knee, of Arya fleeing into the unknown to escape captivity, of Sansa in a tower. What would the boy do? What would the man do?

Boy or man? Which was he?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to all the people who've been enjoying this; for the comments especially. i love 'em. 
> 
> a few notes here: we've obviously had a bit of a time skip, but because some of the timelines in asoiaf can be a little murky: oxcross in the beginning of june, the march towards ashemark (and the capture of several castles) took place a few days after that, and the battle of ashemark happens around the beginning of july, around the same time theon is raiding torrhen's square. they've stayed at ashemark for eleven days (thereabouts). they know renly is dead and are still waiting for a reply from theon, but now know about the possibility of ironborn in the north, and know about ramsay and reek (but obviously don't know reek was the one executed and ramsay will be en route to winterfell). the rumor mill of KL is as strong as ever and “sansa” has reappeared as the girl in the maidenvault. 
> 
> regarding jon's new sword: i originally wasn't going to go out on a limb and dig up/make up another sword for him to have, but longclaw played such a huge role in his storyline that i felt it necessary. it basically plays the darker parallel to longclaw. where mormont gave Jon longclaw as thanks, jon essentially “took” hecatomb as a victory spoil, both are bastard blades. i sort of wrote damon marbrand as a southron version of mormont in the beginning accidentally, so i thought why not. the little lore bits of hecatomb are entirely made up, sorrynotsorry, but it plays its own role in his own internal struggle. is hecatomb a pretentious name? yeah, but i felt less bad about it when i saw the other names and figured it was just a thing. jon's internal struggle between envy and distancing himself from it i hoped will mimic his desire to break his vows with the NW at one point (and then he does out of necessity and because he was attracted to and felt affection for ygritte), but also because i think being around lords, his brother, would cause his desire for glory to be questioned by himself and be emphasized constantly. we are approaching, in canon, the fall of winterfell, and the storming of the crag, and a bump in robb's original plan; we are so, so close to an end in one part of jon's journey. also that game The Lord's Gambit doesn't appear in asoiaf or got, but it is totally a reference to monopoly and gyan chaupar.


	6. Chapter 6

Now that King Renly the usurper, foul traitor, had been killed by his own knight, the Tyrells sought another family to align themselves with. Good King Joffrey had extended a gracious, merciful hand towards them and King's Landing held its breath for the outcome.

Alayne discovered that many called him “Good King Joffrey”, but in the night when men murmured their secrets to women with perfume in their hair amid stressed sheets, he became “Mad King Joff”.

Ser Hugh Clifton, a man who'd been easily enthralled with a song and a smile, resplendent in perfect armor stamped with a lion headed sailboat on a stormy sea, had confessed to her in one of the nooks Alayne had claimed for herself when she entertained and kept conversation with the men. He had tales of roses and stags. The Queen of Thorns and her ambition, the Rose of Highgarden who was the Maiden given form, the marriage of power between the Tyrells and the crown.

“She's a maid, Alayne,” he murmured drunkenly to her ear. She allowed him to bat playfully at a fallen curl of her hair.

She giggled as she poured him ale, surreptitiously positioning the more expensive pitcher of wine to a corner shelf that normally held special oils, and he drank noisily. His nose wrinkled as he noticed the different taste of his “wine”, but he only urged her to pour more. “How can she be a maid, Ser?” Alayne asked. The Lady Margaery had been married to King Renly – in the rosy colored vision of Sansa Stark, she had judged him to be gallant and handsome. Alayne was more critical, and saw him as handsome, but impressed with himself more than anyone else. Surely such a man wouldn't have waited long to take his wife's maidenhead? It was a treasured thing, a prideful one, to obtain amongst men. Some challenge to conquer – so said the girls in the brothel.

Ser Hugh hiccoughed loudly and he spilled ale on himself. “The – the...he only liked cock, Alayne,” he laughed.

Alayne's blush was real as it traveled down her neck, across her chest. “Oh,” she murmured. King Renly had not preferred women, and so Lady Margaery was still a maid. A very powerful alliance. “Do you think Lady Margaery will be arriving in King's Landing soon? I've heard she's beautiful.”

Lady Margaery held her interest, as did any news regarding the Tyrells, but with rumors of her beauty and wit circling King's Landing, Alayne was given cause to wonder. What obvious choice would the Tyrells open themselves to? What would they profit most from by coming back into the fold? Of course, the king and King's Landing would profit from an alliance with the Tyrells. If Sansa Stark was already imprisoned in the Maidenvault, then she was of hardly any use; King Robb of the North was still fighting the crown. If the northern girl wasn't married off to King Joffrey, then who would be her husband so through her they might claim the north? Of course, a sweet, stupid lady such as Sansa might not know better, but Alayne did. Chataya said that two things determined the noble classes: profit and desire, and each could be interpreted in so many different ways. Desire was not only the allure or a beautiful woman, or a handsome man. Profit was not only the gleam of gold in outstretched hands.

If the Tyrells sought a marriage with the king, as they likely would be, what would become of the girl in the Maidenvault and her claim to Winterfell? Who would have her?

Alayne poured Ser Hugh more ale and offered him a slice of apple, pinched between two fingers. He clumsily tried to bite it, but missed and laughed even louder. She fed him, imagining he was only a large baby bird she'd found, not a grown man who had tried to pull her dress off one shoulder. Her skin crawled when his mouth found her fingers and he slurped noisily. She forced herself to compare it to Lady. Of course, when she'd fed her direwolf, Lady had been far more mannerly. But no, she'd never had a direwolf, or knew her father. She was Alayne.

“Any day now, love. 'Suppose the unplucked rose will wed our king,” Ser Hugh said. “Gods bless their marriage. Though – though, what's he to do with that northern chit he has locked away? No telling,” he slurred. “I am part of Lady Margaery's personal guard. I came ahead to swear fealty to the crown as show of good faith. So they might – we might march on the Riverlands with Lord Lannister. Or guard the crown from that fucking traitor uncle of the king's. He means to storm the gates, the fool.” His brow scrunched. It looked like a great caterpillar was squirming on his forehead when he did it.

All of what he said was concerning, but her immediate concern was on the Maidenvault and the northern girl, and after that - King Stannis's plan to siege the Red Keep. King Robb was a talented commander in the field, and Lady Catelyn was shrewd in the world of politics. There was lesser cause for Alayne to even worry about those noble traitors she'd never even knew about before this, and it would especially strange to Ser Hugh if she was concerned with the war far out there. But worry over King Stannis attacking? Not so strange. And everyone was wondering about the girl in the Maidenvault.

“Have you seen her?” Alayne led, laying a light hand on his forearm to turn his attention back to her, away from one of the other women who'd come down freshly made, prepared for a night in bed. Ser Hugh leaned into her. “The girl in the Maidenvault?” He tried leaning his head into her bosom. She shifted so her shoulder cushioned him instead. He smelled her hair and she felt a chill run through her body when he tried dragging her closer. She allowed it and forced herself to relax, tried to emulate the girls who loved so easily, who made it look soft and loving. She only felt that it was like trying to hold a salamander; a cold, squirmy thing that demanded warmth she didn't want to share.

“Mm...no. No one has, but the queen and her maids. The king too, I suppose. I don't want to talk about her Alayne. Sing me a song. Give me a kiss.”

Alayne dodged the kiss he'd aimed at her cheek with a high laugh as though she were delighted by this turn of events while she fought the nausea that surged from the pit of her belly, and tugged Ser Hugh to his feet. “Why don't I sing and we dance, Ser Hugh? I've never danced with a knight before,” she said. Alayaya had told her she had long eyelashes, like the wingtips of a bird, and she should use them. Alayne had only recently figured out how she might implement them in her productions; she looked up at the knight beneath them, a fluttered affectation fanning them out like spilled ink across her cheeks, and his smile widened.

She sang and he twirled her gaily, with some skill which was quite astounding considering how much effort it took for him to stand without swaying. Eventually, she led him off to one of the girls, Arin, and she returned to the dancing circle, still singing, to find another partner waiting for her. She danced with a wealthy merchant from the westerlands, a minor lord missing an eye who wore red and turquoise, and the son of a nobleman who wore his beard braided. They made a game of trying to kiss her without resorting to forcing her to stay still, and Alayne caught on to the game quickly. They likely had gotten the idea from watching Ser Hugh.

She wore a light damask dress done in peach and lavender that lifted around her ankles as she spun. A lady would never do this, particularly one so young and unmarried without any escort. Alayne wasn't a lady. She could play one for the benefit of a crowd that so craved a lady's manners and courtesies, but desired a closeness and comfortable intimacy a lady would have been condemned for among men she wasn't intimately familiar with or related to by blood.

So, Alayne created a game within theirs. She moved from one dance partner to the next if they presented themselves when they failed to kiss her. Something in her rebelled against being kissed by any of them, no matter how kind they were. She was only a bastard girl, and so perhaps her virtue mattered less, but she could be bolder in her refusals. Braver. When no partner immediately presented himself, she took up her harp and danced by herself, strumming and singing.

She pushed away the thoughts of the Tyrells marrying into the crown, of roses and stags and lions marching to the north, of the family that wasn't hers in even greater danger. Thoughts of missing her mother and brothers, her sister, and her father, lifted from her mind as though carried off by a bird flying far, far away. The girl in the Maidenvault was only a puzzle to idle away at, nothing more.

Alayne had no worries. Those worries belonged to some other girl, some unlucky girl. She only had to worry about dancing and the joyous clapping, the clink of coins landing in her earnings cup.

The harp, which she'd named Sharra to honor her Riverlands roots, danced with her. It spun with her, round and round. It spun away all her sorrows and pain as though she were Jenny in her empty halls.

Business eventually dwindled, and unlike the other brothels which might remain open throughout the day, Chataya desired a time for silence and peace to clean and air her brothel out. The light of dawn peeked across, shining dim gold and streaking the dark sky with mauve and burnt orange, and those men remaining left cheerily.

The box that had replaced her original earnings cup was heavy that night. Coppers; there were pennies and groats, but she saw stars, and two shining silver stags. Jalabhar Xho – only he never introduced himself to Alayne, she didn't know how she knew him, but he'd known Sansa Stark when she'd been dew eyed and red – had given her the box once after she'd danced with him and had dropped a moon coin in it. He'd bowed and she'd curtsied. His feather cape was beautiful as any of the birds she had only seen in books, green and red and gold, and from its immaculate confines, with a murmur in words she didn't understand, he produced the small ornate box, no larger than her peasant's cup. “A gift,” he said, “so you might dance with me next time. So I can show you a dance from my home. I have missed them.” He smiled and it was broad across his face, so genuinely pleasant she felt her heart flutter in response. How long had it been since a man had given her any attention without looking at her and wondering what she held beneath her dresses? Jalabhar had no interest in her beyond the observation of beauty, much the same way one might regard a painting, and it was a strange relief.

“Oh,” Alayne's voice had been hushed, a little hoarse. A lady would gratefully accept and offer something in return. Alayne was a bastard, a little shy even if she could be brave, and so she shook her head. “My lord, I cannot even begin to find words that would adequately thank you for this...but this is far too expensive for the likes of me.”

“I insist, you are better than that,” he said, and waved a hand at her cup. “This is not the first time I have come here and listened to you. I brought this here so I could give it to you. Please, Sweet Alayne. Something beautiful to hold the earnings you've won.”

It was made of a light colored wood, lacquered and treated so it nearly shined like sunlight. It depicted a hand painted image of a large sleeping striped cat – a tyger if she remembered correctly – with butterflies and birds in flight.

Ever since, Jalabhar liked to dance with her, show her dances from his home, and requested songs. He'd never been inappropriate with her and enjoyed playing cards and games when she was not entertaining multiple men. His box had become her second steadfast companion while she worked. 

In her room, she poured her earnings for the night into an old chest with a lock she'd haggled for in the market. The lock was plain and ugly, but sturdy, as was the chest Jayde had gifted to her after Alayne had repaired her favorite silk slippers and made her a shawl. 

This was one of the days when Alayne would be allowed to nap at her leisure; there were no errands to run and it wasn't time to go over the book of accounts. Her body demanded sleep, but even so, she carefully washed herself and slipped into a shift. Dancy was still not back yet; likely with her last man. Cissy, the hopeful for a position at the brothel hadn't passed whatever test she'd been set to, and had been dismissed. It had given Alayne an echo of anxiety while she'd watched Cissy vanish from view. Weeks of only half-groats and pennies had set a sour taste in her mouth, a queasiness in her every move. The sound of coins made her palms sweat.

Something had changed, though. When she went over her weekly inventory, she would need to meet with Chataya. The sight of silver was a welcome one although Chataya would take her due for the first time. She ached at the thought of the first silvers she had earned being taken away, but she was eating, sleeping, and wearing clothing provided for her. Lately, she had been seeing more coppers, and with them the gleam of silver had been few but no longer uncommon at the end of her nights. But the time had come for her taxing. Hopefully she would be able to keep a few. 

To avoid such dreary thoughts, she turned her attention fully on the simple fact that she had made numerous discoveries that night thanks to Ser Hugh. Not only did he help fill in the gaps of the rumors she'd heard and such information was as precious as gold, but he helped her realize something else. Companionship, affection, familiarity, and fun needn't require any of the services men originally had come to Chataya's brothel in search of. Chataya hadn't been wrong; she only had to make them love her. How did women make men love them when they didn't offer their name or wealth or position or body? It made Alayne wonder then: what was love? It was comfort, it was gentleness, it was sanctuary; it held understanding and affection, even if it was an illusion it was something men, and women Alayne thought, would pay dearly for. How many songs and stories had she heard that love had destroyed an army, a House, a kingdom? How often had men and women died for love?

These men here didn't seek love out specifically, but they sought out some of the relief that could come from love. Making love, Alayaya had told her one night when she'd helped Alayne dye her hair to the roots properly, was only part of what love was about but it was the easiest part for men. “The gods fashioned us for love, lovely, how can we deny them and ourselves?” she'd asked rhetorically.

She was only beginning to comprehend just what love was, in the eyes of others.

And for those moments when she'd danced in arms of the men tonight and played their game, they had loved her for giving them something perhaps not even they knew they might want. _The trick_ , Alayne thought as she ran careful fingers over her gift, _is knowing what they want and making them want what you have to offer instead_. It made her feel a little wicked, like a witch caught in the early stages of her craft. Ser Hugh had not only wanted a kiss from Alayne, but she'd teased and made light of it that he'd tricked himself into believing this was just exactly what he needed. So had all those other men who had watched and played the game after. 

It was the essence of what Chataya had spoken of. She had to make others love her, but what was true love? Alayne was only a girl who had never been in love. She had loved, of course. She loved her mother.

The other girl shoved in the far corner of her mind, Sansa, had been in love, but it had been a girl's blind, naive passion. She had loved her father, her mother, her brothers, and her sister, her half-brother -

But that girl was locked away in the Maidenvault.

It was only Alayne here, wondering if love was something that grew or simply came into existence. What she gave them was escape, not love, although they could blind themselves to it that it was not manufactured like boiling pots of dye, like the fine clothes they wore. With that in mind, she came to an epiphany that she could only explain in the words of a story her mother had once told her an age ago. 

A man had searched all his life for gold, only to find it glittering in the bottom of a river and had so desperately scooped it up he had drowned. But it hadn't been gold; it had been fool's gold. “It's not real gold, my love. It can look like real gold from a distance, and may shine the same, but no one could truly mistake it for real gold. It can only fool people who want to be fooled by it,” her mother had said as she'd brushed her hair.

Alayne did not have to give them real love, because those that didn't want it wouldn't be fooled by it anyway. She only had to fool those who wanted to be fooled.

...

 

Alayne tightened the coils of Dancy's braids. They would form tight ringlets in the afternoon when she released them; a new look. Dancy was off to see a man although it was still their rest day. Dancy's red, red hair was beginning to fade and strands of blond showed like sunshine peaking through foliage. “I heard you've been making yourself known quite well to the men,” Dancy said nonchalantly. “You changed your mind about spreading your legs?” Dancy was always brusquer, more crass than Alayne, and it rarely ever meant anything.

But Alayne was aware enough of maneuvers of pieces, of card hands, to know that this was anything but casual. She responded absently, as though intensely focused on Dancy's hair. “I cannot say that they are not aware of me. They sit and while away time with me before they're attended by someone else.”

“Passing time,” Dancy confirmed with a nod. In the rusting mirror glass on their shared vanity, Alayne saw Dancy's lips purse.

 _Ah_ , Alayne thought. Dancy was concerned about something. Perhaps she worried her goal would be impeded by Alayne? Alayne had no desire to be paid for by a patron, and it wasn't as though someone would pay to take her from the brothel when she refused to lie with any of them. “It is only to keep them from being rowdy, I think,” Alayne said thoughtfully with a giggle. “I've seen small children with more patience.”

Dancy smiled and the tension that had been building vanished. “It is good we have you to mind them, then,” she said lightly. "Some of the girls don't have all that patience." 

Dancy was not concerned for herself, but for the possibility that Alayne taking away opportunity from other girls. She couldn't fault her for it. There was already a somewhat suspicious air surrounding Alayne's circumstances, the idea that she was favored when she shouldn't be. She allowed the rebuke and paid it little mind.

Alayne didn't know the cost of playing this game, but within her and in the Maidenvault, Sansa Stark still carried the marks of playing another game when she hadn't even _known_ she had been. Alayne would prefer to watch and learn while she could. She was still part of the game, even if her role had changed, even if her surroundings had too. It was a mummer's play and she was the actress. The narrator. There were simply less strings on her – a boon and a hindrance. Without strings, she was no one's toy to bat around. Yet without any, she alone had to decide her course of action and planning. It was more freedom than she'd known, even if danger would always loom as a shadow in her every step. The music would never stop playing, despite what Sansa had thought. As long as the music played, Alayne had to dance. To stop, to not play, would not mean that the music or the game wouldn't still affect her. Ignorance was death. 

Even in the perfumed walls she lived within proved that - not so obvious as it had been with Sansa, but there were other rules for women who weren't highborn. How they might live, survive, thrive. 

“And you, Dancy? I've heard that a knight has become very enamored with you,” she said it softly, made it sound as though she were awed. In truth, she was, but not for the reason Dancy would think. They all made it look so easy while she struggled. It was becoming easier, but she endeavored to mimic them as much as she could. They'd survived things that Sansa Stark would never have. Alayne was learning how. 

Dancy preened. “He's favored me for some time. I think he might become my patron.” She held a hand over her belly and Alayne's eyes couldn't help but widen.

Her lips parted and she whispered urgently, “Are you with child?”

Dancy bit her lip. “I might be.” She spun and gripped Alayne's arms. “You mustn't tell anyone. Not a soul Alayne. Promise me.” Her tone was sharp, but pleading.

Alayne laid a hand on hers. “Your secret is safe. I don't think Chataya would mind if you had a child though...?” Children were a blessing to the woman. Nothing to be ashamed of. Bastards or no. Children were gifts. She thought of her half-brother, who had been so despised by her mother and who she had not sought out of love for her mother. She was a bastard now, too. But no. Jon Snow was Lord Eddard Stark's bastard, half-brother to Sansa Stark.

She was only ever Alayne.

“She would, because I won't be sleeping with anyone else once I've told him.” Dancy raised her chin. “I won't be his wife, but he'll take me as a mistress. I'd have a home like Jayde, a place to raise my little one that won't be here.”

Chataya was not cruel, but she was a merchant in the business of flesh. If Dancy couldn't produce results, and had no wish to, Alayne doubted Chataya would allow her to stay for long and eat from her table, sleep under her roof. Alayne's situation had been negotiated differently from Dancy's and every other girl in the brothel. She and Chataya had always had an understanding. Dancy did not have that luxury.

Alayne carefully worded what her thoughts were to avoid angering Dancy. “And...if he doesn't? What will you do?”

Dancy's jaw clenched. “You don't think he'd still want me?”

Alayne shook her head. “Any man would want you still, but many noblemen have bastards and few ever interact with the mothers of their children...”

Dancy's hands wove across her abdomen. “He's a member of the Kingsguard. If he and his family will not support me, then if I speak out about it, it'll bring shame to that white cloak of his. All those highborns, all they care about is what someone else will say about them,” she scoffed. She was less a girl infatuated and more a woman on a quest.

Alayne's breath stuttered. Of course highborn ladies and men cared about who said what. Alliances and wars were made by simple claims, by the wrong words. Men died and lived, kingdoms changed, marriages crumbled by the mere utterance of an untrue rumor if it was given time to fester. This was dangerous. It could be. “Who...?” She was afraid to even ask. The court was full of serpents, and those that guarded them were serpents as well.

“Ser Boros,” Dancy answered before Alayne could even gather the courage to finish her question. “He's been good to me. Brought me gifts, paid me well. He wouldn't hurt me. At least this way he might have a son even if he cannot take a wife.” She shot Alayne a cutting look. “I don't want to hear what you think of this. I can see it on your face. But I will not live here forever Alayne. I deserve more than this. I will _not_ live out my life here. There is something more for me waiting and I am not afraid to go get it.” She hesitated. “Chataya is a good woman. A good employer, but I deserve more. And you should realize that you do too. But nobody anywhere has ever gotten what they deserve by just hoping and praying and wishing. You have to get it yourself.”

Dancy spun away in a flap of gauzy silk and braids and Alayne was left alone in their room.

Blount. Two black porcupines on green, divided by a band of red. Kingsguard member Ser Boros Blount, the mailed fist of the queen that had beaten Sansa Stark and took enjoyment in her whimpering and tears. The one who'd once nearly stripped her by order of the king when he'd been in a frothing rage over the Young Wolf's rebellion.

Oh Dancy. _Oh, Dancy_.

…

 

The day passed, unremarkable beyond the knowledge of the father of Dancy's babe, still swelling in her mostly flat belly. She hadn't had the pregnancy illness Lilie had suffered from, and Alayne had originally thought that the rounded quality her belly had taken on had simply been from an excess of wine and sugared fruit. She'd been told otherwise since, of course.

Knowing what she did about Ser Boros, from the hidden memories of the (false) traitor's daughter Sansa Stark, she considered taking the information to Chataya, but it wasn't her secret. It wasn't her decision. For good or ill, Alayne could not force the issue, could she?

If it was done out of good intentions, would that excuse her willfulness? Would that excuse her seemingly running roughshod over Dancy's plans? Over her desire for a better life? How could she possibly say, with complete certainty, that she knew Dancy's life and choices better than Dancy herself did? How could she when Dancy had not asked for advice at all, but had only shared her information out of nervous anticipation that what she worked for might come to fruition, finally?

Life was no song, and nothing was perfect. Dancy was only trying to make the best with the tools at her disposal. She wasn't right, Alayne still believed Ser Boros was a bad man, as Sansa Stark had believed, but Dancy wasn't wrong either. She was better than this life. Whatever she truly wanted, it wasn't this. This was only a means to an end.

She was so brave. She saw what she wanted and sought to get it without hurting anyone. It would cause some embarrassment for House Blount and Ser Boros if the secret was ever exposed, but it wouldn't truly harm anyone. Perhaps she wasn't wrong about Ser Boros wanting a son of his own, if he were never allowed a wife. She only knew of Ser Boros as Sansa Stark, toy of the court. She didn't know him beyond that. Perhaps without that white cloak, he was a better man. Maybe the cloak, the station, poisoned the man. 

Sansa Stark had once thought it was so romantic, the life of a Kingsguard. To give up love and life in the name of honor and duty.

Alayne saw it as cold, and lonely, and the Night's Watch by a different name. Brothers in black, brothers in white, only ever toy soldiers in a line.

Alayne tucked Dancy's secret away, beneath the layers of her other secrets, and vowed only to interfere if she was worried for her safety, as a friend, as Dancy had once interfered with Alayne to protect her from wandering around Flea Bottom. She suspected though, that Chataya and Alayaya had their suspicions about Dancy's condition. They always knew.

But there were other things to do, like finish that dress Bess was paying her to make.

Alayne stitched small bluebirds and ivy vines on the silk dress; something light and airy, as delightful as Bess herself. Above, Lilie was irritable and their shared room smelled of sick, so Alayne had retreated elsewhere to stitch and relax in peace. She'd lit a small fire tiny hearth in the ground floor of the brothel to help chase away the stench of King's Landing. Potpourri could only do so much and the smell of cloves and cinnamon sometimes became too overpowering.

A stranger's shadow darkened the doorway of the brothel when twilight cast a grayish haze across the sky. She was taller than Alayne and older than her too, and wore a hooded cloak of periwinkle that nearly concealed her hair but not quite.

Alayne's heart skipped a beat when she saw bright red hair tumble from the confines of the drawn hood. An unfamiliar face stared back out. Her heart sank. The red was not Tully red. But why would it be? Catelyn Stark would not have found her daughter in this place - for if she had, then that meant someone before her had, and how could they have trusted it wasn't a trap? Relief and disappointment made an uncomfortable stew in her belly and she willed it from her mind.

“Hello lovely,” the woman said with a cheeky smile. “I've an appointment with Chataya. I'm Ros.” She held out a long fingered hand, wriggling her fingers until Alayne curtsied back out of habit. The woman called Ros swept her eyes up and down Alayne's figure contemplatively. “You are a gem. How much do you make here after taxing?”

Alayne flushed when she realized what the woman was asking, but Chataya's smooth voice cut off any reply she might have formulated.

“Our Sweet Alayne only ever sings,” Chataya declared. Alayne hadn't even heard her come down. She must have seen the stranger, Ros, enter while she'd watched from the window in her office. Chataya was dressed in some confection that dripped gold beads and shining tassels. She prowled closer like a big cat eyeing a rabbit. “And while you say you have an appointment, I do not recall ever holding an appointment on my establishment's rest day.” She walked past Alayne, who dipped behind her to watch the interaction. Chataya was a shrewd woman, as fierce as her own mother was, in her own way. It would behoove Alayne to observe. “I wonder then, why Lord Baelish's right hand finds herself at my doorstep. A possible change of employer? Have you mistakenly come to visit one of my girls again? He has already taken several.”

“He helped them find patrons,” Ros elaborated with an easy smile.

“Of course,” Chataya replied amicably as though Ros had said that the king had been turned into a donkey. She popped a grape into her mouth. “He is a generous man. Most of all to himself.”

“Lord Baelish only wants to extend a new offer -” Ros pulled out a scroll that Chataya unrolled and read through quickly, “-since the last one seemed so lacking.”

“I am the only owner of this place and the only reason I imagine this wasn't delivered by whatever unfortunate orphan Lord Baelish came across is because he sent you to scout for heads again.” Chataya threw the scroll into the small fire crackling at the hearth only meant to take the drafty sea air to task. The scroll caught flame and the scent of burning paper filled the area. As though just remembering Alayne's presence, Chataya raised her brows. “And certainly I didn't overhead you proposition our Alayne on Lord Baelish's behalf. Without myself being present.”

“She would find a patron very quick,” Ros began.

“She does well here,” Chataya countered. She clucked her tongue. “I would imagine you're thirsty, Ros.”

“Parched,” the other woman said.

“Alayne, give her something to eat as well, and then escort her to the door after she's done...I am afraid even the Street of Silk isn't safe for women wandering alone in the evenings and would not wish to keep her long.”

“You wouldn't know of any route that'd be safer back to the Red Keep? It's where I'm to report to my lord.” Ros smiled, a disarming gentle thing, but her tone was knowing and pointed.

“I am sure that if I knew of one, I would charge the whole city for the knowledge,” Chataya laughed. She left, and Alayne remained alone with Ros, who sat on a cushion near the fire.

She patted one of the pillows beside her. She winked at Alayne's hesitation. “Come here, love. I don't bite. Well. I won't bite _you_.”

Alayne sat, and felt the pressing unfamiliar feeling that had once been frighteningly familiar to Sansa Stark.

Alayne, Sansa, Rivers and Stark, stared back at the woman, a vision of cream and peach and red, bounty and lushness. Petyr Baelish was a friend of Catelyn Stark's; a childhood friend who had fostered at Riverrun, who had once challenged her original betrothed Brandon Stark to a duel for her hand and he'd lost, terribly. He had watched her in a keen way Sansa had not understood, but Alayne's eye was more practiced and wiser. He'd smelled of mint and was the Master of Coin. He was the one who had been away negotiating terms with the Tyrells to aid the crown in this war against the North. He was Catelyn Stark's friend, but both Sansa and Alayne had learned to be wary of friends in the south. Everyone here was both enemy and friend, everyone but Shae and Alayaya, and sometimes Chataya.

Sansa had heard that he was practiced in the court and thought of as slippery, if a good ally to have. Her father had not liked him, had not liked the way Petyr Baelish had leaned in to whisper in her ear during her first tourney.

Alayne was wiser to the ways of men. She was wiser to the ways of people who so easily named themselves friends, who called to attention their magnanimity, and most especially those that tried to blend in. She was one of them, and knew that secrets could be deadly.

Alayne smiled at Ros prettily and shifted as though nervous, tugging at the hem of her sleeve. “Hello,” she said shyly. “How might I help you? On rest days we're allowed one cup of wine, but we have cold juice and sweetwater, and iced milk too if you'd prefer. There's treats...”

Ros smiled indulgently and patted her knee. “ _You_ are a treat. I've wondered, you see, for I'd heard about a pretty bastard maid who sang like a nightingale and managed to bring a foreign prince to this place and he never bought her cunt.”

Alayne felt her blood freeze. Prince Jalabhar in his feathered splendor, who had visited the other girls, but most often gave coin for them to sit with him while he listened to Alayne sing and danced with her, laughing in a young boy's joy. He'd gifted her the box now in her chest upstairs so she might store her earnings with more dignity than a street performer. She swallowed and called to mind the charm of Alayne, the gentle teasing she'd learned at the feet of Lady Bellonara. “I think he appreciated having a song instead of being bothered by questions from other lords and knights about why he wasn't ruling in the Summer Isles,” she whispered as though this was some great secret only she had uncovered. It was a common enough whisper amongst the nobles, but to a bastard girl? It was indeed some great thing, surely, that had been revealed to her.

Ros gave a short laugh. “I'd think so. He hears of it all the time at court,” she sighed and crossed one long leg over the other.

Alayne let herself slump as though put out. “Oh, I suppose.”

Ros hummed and dismissed the topic. Her next questions were less probing. She asked how happy the girls were, how much they made, how many men they saw, who were their customers, the faces she often saw...

In the end, for all of Alayne's beauty and songcraft and dancing skill, she proved to be a dull, uninteresting girl who paid no attention to the world around her when she was not entertaining. Ros drank half a glass of pulped orange juice, sweetened with honeyed ice, ate nothing, and left with a smile, but she was no longer interested in engaging with Alayne.

Alayne watched her disappear into the throngs of people, her periwinkle cloak setting her apart. The hopeful business transaction that had fallen apart before it had ever begun had been part of the reason Ros had been sent here, but she had pointedly asked about Alayne. Petyr Baelish was obviously guilty of snapping up Chataya's girls previously and Ros hadn't only asked about Alayne, but Bess and Dancy, Jayde, and others. She truly had come looking for girls to snatch up for her employer. She supposed there would be little point in trying to woo a woman who wanted nothing to do with Lord Baelish when he could more easily take all the golden geese out from under her instead.

A hand at her shoulder made her flinch and Alayne whipped around but it was only Alayaya. She wove her arm around Alayne's shoulders and pressed her cheek to Alayne's. Alayaya was free with her touches, her comforts, and it was comforting, even a little exciting sometimes. Now, Alayne was barely aware of it as she lost herself in her thoughts. She turned back to the window, but the blue cloak had vanished.

“Do you know Lord Baelish?” she asked Alayaya. Alayaya's heady perfume of sandalwood and vanilla was strong enough she could taste its thick sweetness on her tongue.

Alayaya sighed. “I do. He's a bad man. A viper as much as the others in the court, but more dangerous. He's worse than a snake in the grass. At least a snake will only kill you to defend itself or to eat.”

She lay a hand on Alayaya's arm. “Tell me, please?”

Alayaya was silent for such a long moment that Alayne thought this might be the one thing Alayaya wouldn't share with her. “Do you know why we told you never to venture off the merchant routes?”

Alayne recalled Dancy's warnings about bowls of brown, the packs of starving desperate orphans, the men who had children that wouldn't eat better than a lady's horse, the fear and anger and desire for all the terrible things done to them to be done to someone else. “Yes,” she said quietly.

“Not all of it, sweet Alayne. Not everyone who goes missing ends up as food for the hungry with the dead cats, or killed. A lot of girls go missing. Pretty girls,” she emphasized and tucked a strand of hair behind Alayne's ear. “Lord Baelish is a wealthy man who bought many, many people. Many lords and knights. He did it in a very short amount of time, too. He is very clever. Lords and ladies, and even the crown, will never climb out of the pit he dug for them.”

“Being clever doesn't make him bad,” Alayne said. He was Catelyn Stark's friend, was he not? He couldn't be so terrible as all that. Alayne and Sansa couldn't afford to blindly trust anyone, but perhaps...

“Being stupid and bad is one thing. Being clever and bad is worse. It's difficult to gather so many girls, beautiful ones, as Baelish has, in so little time, don't you know? Yet he did, and somehow, they were not so expensive to procure, to train, to care for, these women. Some are very young, from different places. Most are from Westeros, and can never leave where they are now.”

Alayne's heart thudded in her ears, beating at her ribs like a cage it meant to break open. Fear made its home in her heart. A friend of her mother's and her father's. Was he? They wouldn't have been his friend if they'd known. She knew more than she once had, that everyone had numerous faces and masks – but this wasn't just courtesy. This was...it was shapeshifting, like the stories Old Nan had once told her.

“He stole them?” The words felt stilted, as though she were speaking around a wad of fabric. “Their families...” But no. Not all families had the privilege of remaining together, or even would have the privilege of the knowledge of what exactly was happening to their brothers or sister or mother or father. But – but this was a friend to her family. No. Someone who her mother and father had trusted wouldn't do things like that, would he? But what did she know about him?

Who would know him better - her parents she loved so dearly and had known him since their childhoods, or the women in the brothel who had eyes and ears into the private lives of all the lords and ladies and knights?

“It is easy to forget a girl vanishing into thin air when men like Baelish offer the sort of taboo services my mother loathes. Men like Baelish make these terrible things in the world seem as if they've never happened, and if they do, then they have nothing to do with it.” Alayaya turned Alayne around to face her. Her expression was stern. “Never go anywhere with him; he's a small man with green eyes and a mockingbird on his clothes. Never go anywhere with that woman he sent, either. He's dangerous, Alayne. Mother knows this and tries to keep us safe, but some went to him and never came back.”

“What does he do to them?” She had to know. She had to know who this man was, the one that had watched Sansa Stark as if seeing a flower bloom from a desert before his eyes, the one who had been fostered in the home of her mother, the one who had been her mother's and father's friend. The one who had put his mouth to Sansa Stark's ear to speak to her, hand on her shoulder, and had first caused the shudder of disquiet she was coming to associate with men who couldn't stop touching her. She'd felt bad about it before, because he called Mother 'friend'. Dread grew arms and legs and a mouth, and its minty breath hissed across her skin.

Alayaya gave her a pinched look, almost sorrowful, as though she knew she had to tell Alayne but didn't want to. “Bad things. Such bad things.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long delay, i just started a new job and it's pretty demanding not to mention my hours have completely changed. 
> 
> i know alayne's chapters don't have much action, but i always loved that sansa's chapters in asoiaf always had intrigue and mystery and politics - down to the minute things. i'm hoping to follow in that vein. and just to update a bit on the timeline, this takes place shortly after jon's previous chapter (about two weeks or so). 
> 
> i loved hearing about all the speculations as to what jon intends to do and that everyone liked my reinterpretation of "kill the boy and let the man be born". love to hear from all of you about this; i was pretty exciting i could get to this point with alayne. thank you for all the kudos and comments, and for reading.


	7. Chapter 7

The westerlands raged. A storm broke across the lands, and the northerners unused to the tempestuous nature of southern storms struggled across the mud and grass. Rocks slowed the horses and stuck in their hooves, causing infections that forced several to be put out of their misery when combined with the hot, wet weather.

Jon squinted against the lash of rain and the warm fog that breathed across the fields like steam from some enormous unseen beast.

Ahead, the king and his guards forged ahead, but it was slow going. The horses were unused to the change of terrain and could easily slip. Some of their grain supply had been caught in the freak warm rain shower and would be reduced to mold soon enough. Theft became rampant; of meat, of weapons. The men were restless.

Jon's jaw clenched. They never should have lingered in Ashemark as long as they had. Robb was a king and wasn't at the ground with the others as Jon was, so he was spared the whispers. Jon heard them though. The muttered tail end of conversations, doubting the Young Wolf's experience as though their king could control the bloody weather, the hisses that the north was laid bare as a woman abed for the ironborn – those rumors had spilled from the hands of the nobles and into the hands of the commoners, the soldiers. The raiding of Torrhen's Square hadn't been a one off. A raven had come bearing news that the shores of the north saw ironborn ships; looting and raping. Taking a distinct advantage of the castles and villages left with the bare bones of protectors, most on the march against the southron crown now.

No word had ever come from Theon, and Jon ached to lop his fucking head off.

He'd never meant to come with those fucking ships and now Robb had no choice _but_ to take the Crag in hopes that there would be siege weapons capable enough for their intended purpose. The time they'd spent waiting for that prick had been wasted, and without any means to push their campaign through the westerlands, crushing the northern forces would be child's play once the westermen figured out Robb's path. Their advantage was that Robb had managed to avoid their expectations. If they lost that, they would lose the war against the crown given enough time.

If, Jon thought darkly, they didn't lose beforehand. Two nights ago, a squire deserted. Before that, a small pack of northern soldiers had wandered to a tavern and left out the back, disappearing into the fields. The north loved Robb, but love didn't seem to be enough. They'd make a titan out of a man when they believed they could profit from him, and just as soon cast him down if he didn't meet expectations he was never told of. It frightened Jon. It was a quiet, creeping fear. The hearts of men were complicated; full of traps and flame and darkness and blood.

It lived in his heart too, he'd found. It lived in him too.

He had avoided his brother since their disagreement over Sansa's fate. He wouldn't avoid his king, nor disobey his orders, but his brother who loved him and who he loved? He shied from his companionship. How could he not avoid him and not speak the words that rotted in his gut?

Jon dreamt of her sometimes. He'd dreamt of her sparsely over the years since he'd left Winterfell. It was easier, always easier, to call to mind Arya and his love for her, hers for him. She was his wild little sister, and looked like him and their lord father. She had always loved him best.

Sansa on the other hand was a source of innocent pain and unmeant shame when she never should have been. It was one of the things that was easier to blame on Lady Catelyn. Had they been closer, had they not been kept from one another as Lady Catelyn had seemed to instill the propriety of ladies in her at so young an age, she could have existed alongside Arya, Bran, Rickon, even Robb.

Now his dreams of her weren't isolated images of spring and summer, of song and dance, of Winterfell wreathed in flowers. He dreamt of her brushing Lady's coat and singing, of Lady's coat bloodied and he would lift that red stained fur like a blanket and unveil Sansa beneath, dead. Dead, dead, dead.

He would often wake to Ghost staring at him with his red eyes, and he knew Ghost knew what he'd seen.

Since being knighted, Jon had been tight lipped about Sansa. About the crown. About their campaign. About the fucking Lannisters. About the soldiers and the lords and the beastly nature of men, of all men, and the forms it took. Even in him. War was changing him just as much as anyone else. He couldn't see it in his reflection, but he felt it in his body. Leaner and harder; a wolf come down from the cold to the fields to rend sheep. He felt it most when he fought. He'd first fought to defend, without the intent to kill if he didn't need to. He wasn't so reluctant to strike the killing blow anymore. The weight of his sword only felt like the weight of his arm.

More than he dreamed of Sansa, of Arya, of Winterfell, of his father, he dreamt of killing.

The faces of dead men who he'd put in the ground, of green fields running red, of the fires the northern men lit, the flames of the arrows of the southern men. Fire and blood. It lived in his heart too.

Lord Gregor cursed atop his mare. “Fucking rain.” He spat out rainwater. He patted his mare's neck; an older mare that rarely left his side and tolerated Ghost's presence better than most. She was soaked through and more miserable than Gregor, her pale red hide dark as mud. “Jon, go ahead and ask if we're to make camp soon. We'll lose wagons if this goes on. We haven't the supplies to keep fixing these damned wheels.”

They'd already had to cannibalize one of the wagons to fix wheels on several others, but that strategy would only last so long. This worsening weather would cost them more.

The horses were miserable and a couple of the mules had died so the weight distribution amongst the wagons had been forcibly changed which had cost them even more time; a horse master said that the change of their entire diet from their northern roughage had caused them to bloat in their own gas and shit until it had poisoned them.

Jon moved through the marching soldiers to find Lord Glover. “My lord!” he called out. “Lord Glover.”

Lord Glover turned and looked just as annoyed as Lord Gregor. “Yes lad? What is it?”

“Are we to make camp soon?” Jon forged ahead.

Lord Glover grunted. “Soon as we find somewhere to camp. We sent scouts ahead, but in meantime we continue the march so we aren't sitting on our arses. We might as well just march all the way to the fucking Crag while we're at it though. This is taking a fucking lifetime,” Lord Glover grumbled.

Jon was thoroughly unimpressed. He'd wager that one of the wagons would break down again and topple into the wet and spoil more rations. Or worse, some of the ale would go and the men would be in even worse moods.

Jon relayed the information to Lord Gregor who only sighed. “Shit,” he said.

Jon agreed.

One of them did falter later, and casks of ale broke open under the rain, golden froth spilling across the grass and sinking into the mud. A fight broke out amongst the soldiers over who should have thought to repair that wheel, who was guiding it, who should have, the rain, the gods.

Jon got a black eye for wading into the fray at his lords command to help break it up. The men involved were punished to dig latrines and in this weather, Jon didn't envy the poor fucks.

He dried Bell, Lord Gregor's mare, and cleaned her shoes and rubbed her legs down with a spare cloth. The poor girl lipped at the back of his neck in thanks and Jon didn't have the heart to bat her away. She sighed when he set her feed bag to her mouth; unspoiled, plain oats and part of a withered apple he'd managed to snag.

Lord Gregor had told him to go straight to helping set the rest of the camp up and leave his armor to him. He'd already pulled Lord Rodrik to the side to speak to him in a hushed tone. Jon didn't hear much beyond the name Asher, and from their fraught movements, he knew it was about that letter Rodrik had brought up so long ago.

Camp was set eventually, but some tents kept collapsing under the unsteady ground that was churning beneath their feet. Jon cast about a look at the skies, but only saw fat clouds the color of ash rolling like a herd of black sheep. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed. The scouts had yet to return. Ghost pushed his way into Jon's one man tent, something he'd jealously treasured in the midst of his current conditions and one he was glad he'd taken from Ironrath, cramped but dry. They both watched the skies, silent.

 

…

 

The storm had lasted three days and in that time, more food had spoiled. One man killed another in a fight. In the light of the storm, the men weren't even able to play at being men.

Jon hated that, hated that they loosed themselves as such, and hated that he understood that restlessness boiling under his skin too. One of the soldiers had been executed, but there was no certainty that he had been the one to kill the other.

Moods were darker and harder to appease.

It was a relief when the storm broke, but the chaos it had caused was terrible enough on its own. The march was even slower and all the game had retreated elsewhere in the turmoil.

The heat had returned twofold and the bright sunny days made travel a special kind of hell; it steamed the remaining moisture on their packs and armor.

Moods worsened. Jon watched the soldiers around him warily. The mutters and grumblings were louder, no longer quiet.

Jon thought another fight would break out until they arrived. The scouts were still nowhere to be found, but the Crag waited for them.

They had arrived, finally. But they had arrived days after they'd initially planned and the Crag had taken the time to prepare. There were no men in the field; they must have heard about Ashemark, but Jon could see men lining the tops of the castle with crossbows and staff slings, pikes and throwing spears.

Taking the Crag, ruin or not, could turn costly. Yet what choice were they left with? A long siege with their supplies dwindling as they were and things going wrong, could lead more Lannister forces to them and they would have nowhere to retreat. The Crag's siege could not last long, for their sake.

King Robb called his lords to him and set out a plan to take it. Scaling the walls of a ruin while the main forces broke past the gate; they would need men killing any archers, preventing anyone from pouring oil or tar down their backs – Jon volunteered before he sought his lord's agreement. Smalljon and Black Walder would scale it with him and their own men. Robb looked relieved when Jon volunteered, as if this meant he had forgiven him for his decision. Jon hadn't realized he hadn't, but Robb was his brother, and if this meant the war would be over sooner, he would do everything he could.

Lord Gregor gave him a rueful look. “Oughtn't you have consulted me?”

Jon looked down. “Forgive me, my lord. I wanted to help.”

“You're making a habit of this. You wanted glory, Jon Snow.” Lord Gregor seemed to stare into his bones, divining him. “I was young once. I know that look. I went to war once as a young man. You don't fool me.”

Jon's head snapped up. “It isn't about glory. My lord,” he added as an afterthought.

Lord Gregor released a long breath. “I see what I see, Jon. I know what I know.” He waved a hand to dismiss him. “Be careful that it doesn't eat you alive, Jon. It's the easiest way to die.”

Jon could have asked what he meant, but he excused himself from his lord to gather his men. It wasn't only for glory; it wasn't. He'd do what he had to for the war to end quickly. Sansa and Arya might not survive it, his brothers needed Robb and their mother, and Jon needed to not feel this thing beneath his skin. He had learned to live with his father's shame, with his shame, but this thing the war beckoned from him was not shame. Wolfsblood, must be. Like his Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna. Some wild thing with teeth lived in him and this war wore at it, at him.

 

…

 

The walls were slick with moss and overgrown vines. The climb was easier said than done; it had to be done in complete silence and no one wore armor. To wear armor would alert the watchers on the wall to their presence. A fall from this height would kill a man. A noise would kill them all. If they failed, only the main force at the gate would need to be dealt with. Even with a ram, the death toll had the potential to turn the tide on them, and with so many things going wrong, it would only take a feather on the proverbial scale to change their fate.

Jon climbed. He was faster than Smalljon and Black Walder, and quieter. Hecatomb pressed tightly to his back. He felt strands of his hair catch on the vines of its hilt, pulling.

The ascension seemed to take an age. Below, the ram smashed against the gate. Arrows rained down on them. Rocks and boiling water and animal shit followed. Jon could smell tar being boiled.

He climbed faster, the handholds of the wall slick like sweat. A few men had propped up a scaling ladder, but they'd been spotted, because of course they had been, and Jon had watched a rock smash the head of the first man in. His hands had still held the ladder when he fell back and brought the whole thing down with him, including the other men.

Smalljon, who had climbed walls before, had suggested they climb barehanded with the aid of picks and rope. Easier to avoid something thrown down at you if you weren't stuck on a ladder. And so they did.

Jon was nearing the top.

He heard the chaos below. Arrows on fire sailed over the walls, like birds in flight at night. Men fighting, men dying. He thought he could hear Robb shouting commands over the sounds of battle.

His hand gripped the ledge and he pulled himself up, sweating with the effort of the climb. The night only only begun and he felt an ache in his chest and shoulders. One of the archers caught sight of him and opened his mouth to yell, but Jon was quicker. Hecatomb sunk into his neck, slicing down. The man died with a gurgle, torchlight in his eyes.

Behind him, he heard more men pull themselves up from the wall.

The gates splintered below with a great crash and the men on the wall caught sight of Jon, black haired and black clothed and dark eyed, stalking towards them with Hecatomb in his hand. A wraith in the dark. Chaos erupted and men killed and men died.

Jon lost himself in it for a time.

The moon hid itself behind a cloak of clouds that threatened rain, and the moonlight was taken from them. The wind picked up and torches flickered.

The trumpet of victory came just before Jon was setting his sword against another man, but he'd released his swing and couldn't stop it. He died while the Crag surrendered. The Westerlings had lost their seat and they'd soon lose their siege weapons that would be turned against their lord.

Jon was relieved it was over and disappointed. He hated he was both or either.

King Robb had been injured early on after the gates had broken – and king or no, that was his brother – and in the rush of men helping themselves to the Crag and its supplies and wine, he eventually found where his king was kept. A sword had slashed Robb in his side. It was mostly stitched up, but a Whitehill man was there speaking to him. One of the scouts that had been thought lost, Jon thought. He'd thought they'd deserted.

But a Whitehill? Surely he should be with Lord Bolton in Harrenhal, or in Ashemark, not here.

The man quaked before the wounded king. It didn't seem as though he had stopped to rest on his flight from wherever he'd come from.

“It isn't true,” Robb rasped. His face was pale from the pain or the news. “Southron lies. Lannister lies.”

The scout dipped his head. “I'm sorry, Your Grace. We received Lord Bolton's raven but the storm waylaid us...”

Robb's nostrils flared and he remained pale, furious, teary eyed. “Leave.”

The scout left quickly, and so only Jon remained at the threshold, wondering equal parts at how quickly they'd found somewhere to tend to Robb and what the news was. “Your Grace,” Jon started.

“Winterfell was captured. Ironborn. Theon – Theon killed them, Jon.” Robb sank onto his back on the makeshift cot. His bandage cloth was rusty already. “He killed our brothers. Little boys. He hung them and burned them. Lord Bolton sent word once he heard, but we'd already left Ashemark.”

Jon's vision went hazy and a bell rung in his ear. “He's mistaken.”

“Lord Bolton wouldn't send word like this if he thought it wasn't true. I've lost Winterfell, my home. I've lost my brothers. This damned war, Jon. I'm losing even when I'm winning.”

Why the Whitehills in Ashemark had sent a messenger instead of a raven could be due to the storm but – something felt wrong, but he couldn't focus on it, he could only focus on the thought of Bran and Rickon. Dead. Killed. Murdered.

Our _home,_ our _brothers_ , Jon thought. He staggered and used the wall to hold himself up as though he were an old man. “Greyjoy,” he spat the name. Old feelings of anger and annoyance and envy died in the wake of this new feeling. Hate. It burned cold.

Robb wept silently and Jon's tears blinded him. “I trusted him. He was our brother.” Robb's hand fisted the sheets around him.

 _Your brother, never mine._ He had never been Jon's brother. He had flaunted his name and title, his looks and charm, had teased he might marry Sansa and take her off to be his Lady of Pyke. He'd looked down on Jon even when Jon had been better than him at combat, at strategy, and he knew, he knew that fucking kraken couldn't have been trusted. But he never would have guessed Greyjoy would have done this. 

The craven had killed a baby and a boy who couldn't run from him.

He might have been Robb's brother, but he was no brother of Jon's. Jon would kill him when he saw him next.

Grief and rage grappled for dominance.

Jon sank to the floor and wept, unable to move or speak. He sobbed like a child with his brother.

He clenched his teeth hard enough to make them squeak and tasted his own blood when he bit his tongue. He was an old hand at muffling his own cries when no one would come. Rickon would never hide in the godswood from bath time again, and Bran would never laugh again. Jon would never see them again.

Overhead, he heard rain begin to fall.

 

…

 

The aftermath of it all was a solemn affair. Celebration was weak and hollow in the face of Lord Bolton's news of Winterfell. Robb was still abed with his injury, being tended to by the daughter of House Westerling.

Jon could not stop moving. He had to keep moving or he would sink into that despairing place where he conjured the images of the burnt bodies of his littlest brothers, killed by a man they had trusted.

He checked the stock of siege weapons with Black Walder and Smalljon, both of whom had far more experience with siege weapons and the like than he had. Most of the weapons were ancient, rusted, and obviously hadn't been maintained. He wasn't certain the few that remained would be enough. They would still have to take what they had.

All that remained of the obsession that had driven House Westerling to the ground were a massive trebuchet that badly needed repairs, several catapults, a decrepit battering ram, and a siege tower missing half of its paneling. The rest were basically scrap, of better use in a hearth.

Black Walder, foul tempered as he was, inspected each and every one of them, declaring which would be worth the trouble to take. Jon listened to him carefully, watched what he looked for and asked questions only when he had to. Black Walder's temper, at least, seemed indulgent when Jon was only asking to learn from him. He could have been attempting to be kind after hearing of the news of Jon's brothers, but he doubted the older man cared. It was easier to focus on this task than to think of his dead family, piling up one body at a time.

Smalljon took a book on construction from the small library the Westerlings had; it had detailed maps and included the history of multiple castles and walls. An ancient guide to how they were built and for what purpose.

Lannisport's wall was one of the examples the book expanded on. It was a magnificent thing, the book claimed, but its faults lied with the fact it was a _port_ city with walls. The rocks that had been used when it had first been constructed had weathered over time from lashings of the sea and wind. Patching the walls took time, and because of that, there were key points where the wall would be naturally weaker. To repair a section would mean tearing down more of the wall to do so, but it wasn't necessary any longer as Lannisport was shielded by Casterly Rock.

The book never pointed out the weak points, but from the pictures, Jon could guess. He stowed the book away in a satchel. Black Walder was quiet, but Smalljon spoke up. “We'll either have to take Kayce and continued along the coast and avoid the Rock or double back to Ashemark.” He looked at Jon. “Which would the king want, Ser Jon?”

He didn't feel like a Ser. He didn't even feel like Jon.

The words sank in. He didn't know why they asked him. He was a bastard knight and didn't attend the war meetings they did.

“The Old Lion is already razing the Riverlands. He might've lost the Red Fork, but he's just testing the gaps in our armor.” Jon splayed his hand over a map. “I don't know what King Robb wants to do. Doubling back would mean we could resupply, reinforce what we've already taken.” But it would leave the Rock open to watch them, to build and prepare for the inevitable clash. They would be ready to defend Lannisport. If they took Kayce, they stood the chance of being met with Lannister forces while they skirted the Rock to Lannisport. Taking the Rock would be impossible.

Smalljon cocked his head at the map and drawing of Lannisport. “We'd all probably have to climb again, but with those rocks worn down...we might get that wall down sooner. It wouldn't be a shot in the dark. Scouts could test it. Look for weaknesses before we get there.”

It would be the smart thing to do, but the problem lay in their route. To take Kayce or retreat to Ashemark and set out again. This was no longer pulling the lion's tail; it was either holding it by the ears or waiting for the rest of the pride to find them.

Jon didn't care anymore. He'd lost his brothers and home for this war. How had Father handled losing his father, his sister, and his brother? He'd had King Robert, the man who had his own brothers but had chosen Father to be his true brother. Jon had Robb, and Robb had Jon and Lady Catelyn.

Lannisters and Greyjoys, lions and krakens, taking things that didn't belong to them, killing people who had never done them any wrong. His brothers were dead, his father was dead, and his sisters were lost.

He heard Black Walder speak to Smalljon, heard him reply, but Jon tuned it out. His hands clenched the table's edge. A man's heart was a battlefield, and in Jon, he felt grief lose itself in him. Rage though, rage wasn't lost. It burned.

 

…

 

The days were a blur. The Crag fell quickly after the capture of the castle, and Robb – Robb his brother who he loved, loved enough to fight for, bleed for, kill for – had confessed on the third day of their mourning. “I laid with Lady Jeyne,” Robb said after slurp of broth.

Jon stared. He understood the need turn aside pain. He'd wanted it too. He'd wanted that ache to fill with something else, but his had been a return to happier memories, to sitting quietly with Ghost, to polishing Hecatomb and thinking of executing the ones who were tearing his family apart. But -

“Her family is sworn to House Lannister,” he said dumbly. As kind as Lady Jeyne seemed, every inch the sweet lady, her father was sworn to the lions that had killed his father. “You – you fucked her?” Time away from lords, more time with the soldiers and laborers and other commoners and bastards had whittled away at some of his more delicate manners.

Robb's shoulders drove nearly to his ears. “I took her maidenhead, Jon.” Robb had never looked abashed even when he and Theon – _Greyjoy_ , _never Theon again_ – when he and Greyjoy would visit a whore. Jon had tried going with them, but nothing ever happened. He'd always found himself sitting opposite of a red haired one and his self-condemnation made him flee. Robb though – Robb was always laughing, proud. Charming.

Jon set his stew aside and ran a hand over his mouth. His stubble was thicker than it had ever been. He'd be growing a true beard soon. Robb stared at him, eyes heavy and entire countenance weighed down by the same weight that dragged Jon to the ground.

“I can't dishonor her,” he hedged.

 _You already did_ , he wanted to snap. Jon felt that old wound scraping open again. In the event she bore a child it would be a bastard, and a stain on her honor. And more than that, more than Jon's old hurts that never seemed to stop hurting - “You're betrothed to a Frey,” he countered slowly. “Our ally. That we need.” They couldn't lose the Freys – numerous and rat-faced as they were – or the Twins. Lady Catelyn had bargained for their assistance and King Robb had needed them. _Still_ needed them.

Robb rested his head on the stone behind him. “I'll arrange a betrothal between Arya and a Frey, Sansa too. They'll have incentive to keep helping us to gain royal wives and to save our sisters.”

From the set of Robb's shoulders, the clench of his jaw, the way he stared up at the ceiling, Jon knew Robb the king and Robb his brother who he loved had already decided and there wouldn't be anything he could do to sway his decision. He couldn't help but try anyway.

“Arya will run off when she hears of that and Sansa – isn't it enough she's prisoner to the Lannisters? You can't heap the price on them because -” Jon stopped himself. He sounded angrier than he believed he was, but perhaps he was that angry. Heated. He rubbed his chest absently. He felt filled with ichor, set to burst in flame. If he had a mother, he'd be asking her about it, but there had only ever been Old Nan who was probably dead, and Lady Catelyn, who probably wished he had died instead of her trueborn sons.

Robb watched him, blue eyes blazing. “Say it. Finish what you were saying.”

Jon shook his head. “No, Robb. I didn't mean...” He was a liar, though. He _did_.

“Say it. I want to hear what you've to say.”

Jon's neck flushed and his ears heated. “You can't make them pay the price you can't because you fucked another woman.”

Robb's face, still waxen from his injuries and grief, went nearly as red as his beard. “Damn you, Snow. Damn you. They'd have to marry anyway. I'd let them choose from Frey's brood. This isn't just about Lady Jeyne; this could decide the outcome of the war.”

Jon regarded his stew. Robb was already mad and so was he, so he saw no point in even attempting to point out that Walder Frey would have gotten a daughter as a queen, but now he'd only get princes who wouldn't inherit the North. Robb knew that already anyway.

He was still supposed to discuss the walls of Lannisport and Robb's chosen route to it since the lords were respecting their king's time of mourning, so he didn't leave but the two brothers sat there in an uncomfortable silence for a long while.

“Will we trek to Kayce and chance the Rock, or return to Ashemark and set out again?” Jon asked. There was a sullenness to his tone. Something angry hidden away that still looked through his eyes at Robb.

Robb grunted. “No choice. The weather slowed us down and with Winterfell -” his words failed him for a moment and he had to clear his throat. “With Winterfell in the hands of the ironborn, we can't turn back. I would have us push through to Kayce, but I need to discuss this with the lords. They may choose to return to Riverrun. We may have to since everything is going to shit.” Robb plucked at the sheet over him. “I'd made this plan counting on ships.”

He'd made the plan counting on Theon, his chosen brother. The Robert Baratheon to his Eddard Stark. Only he was betrayed. “We won't be able to cart the siege weapons all the way back to Riverrun.” It would take too long and in meantime, they'd face more wear than some of them might be able to take.

Robb nodded and shut his eyes. “Jon – do you feel different now that you're a knight?”

Jon frowned. He was still Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell. Lord's Stark's greatest shame. The boy who had once meant to take the black and exile himself from the place that had no place for him, to take the shame he'd bundled with him and cast it off as an honorable man would, but had instead been sent to Ironrath to learn at the feet of Lord Gregor. Jon Snow, who had captured Lord Marbrand and felled Ashemark, who had bested Jaime Lannister (even as weary as the lion had been) in combat. He was a boy, now a man, who killed other men and would be expected to kill more men. He would never not be a bastard. He'd never not need to prove himself, to make his name his own.

As a knight he could say he had achieved something, yet it didn't feel like enough. He didn't feel as though he had reached the top of whatever mountain he was climbing. He felt that he had only begun and he couldn't see the top, as far away as it was. As Ser Jon Snow the White Wolf, he was still a bastard who wanted things he should never want.

“I'm still me,” he said.

Robb let out a noise that sounded like disappointment. “I feel different,” his brother said. “Older. Tired. I feel like I just went to sleep one day and woke up an old man since this war started. I have nightmares that I'll be old and grey and I'll still be fighting this war.”

Jon shrugged, an odd hollow quirk made its home on his mouth. “Maybe all the wars feel that way.”

Robb huffed. “Do you think Father felt this way?”

Grandfather had burned in the south to a mad Targaryen, his uncle had strangled himself, his aunt had been kidnapped and raped to death, and Father had only had his chosen brother to march at his side. He'd married Lady Catelyn and after they triumphed over the last dragons, Lord Stark brought his bastard to Winterfell. He'd lost his honor during wartime too. Jon thought Father would've known exactly how Robb felt. How they both felt.

“Yes,” was all he said.

 

…

 

After meeting with his lords, after a cacophony of anger and disappointment, among them Black Walder who protested a Westerling queen ousting what should have been a Frey queen, it was decided that they were to return to Riverrun. The Westerlings would swear to House Stark and maintain a vigil for any Lannister movement. A small force of northmen would reinforce them.

There hadn't been a reply from Lady Catelyn yet, but a proper ceremony was needed for their new king and queen, and the Freys would undoubtedly have to be courted again. Black Walder's temper was blacker than ever. He scowled from the shadows at Robb. Yet the northmen needed to rest and regroup, and Riverrun was the closest and safest place to do so.

It felt wrong to return to Riverrun again when Sansa was in the Maidenvault, but the Lannisters had to be soundly beaten before the bargain could begin or her safety would be further compromised. Perhaps Robb would be more open about discussing an exchange for the Kingslayer for Sansa.

It was what Jon had hoped for until the third to their last day in the Crag when another raven appeared, this time from Edmure Tully.

The Kingslayer had been released upon Lady Catelyn's command, it read, and he was being escorted to King's Landing by her sworn shield. There was no indication about which route they had taken, or indeed any sign of them.

And just like that, Sansa and an end to the war seemed a world away again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon you're so depressing. i promise not all of his chapters will be like this, but he isn't exactly in the happiest of places. hopefully his concerns regarding his changes during the war aren't overblown and hopefully i'm reflecting the changes in him that i'm not expressly pointing out. and due to the change of his circumstances, he is already heading into darker/ at least more morally ambiguous jon snow territory, more in line with jon in the books.  
> thank you all who reviewed the last chapter and enjoyed it (and watching sansa grow into her own) as always it's encouraging to know some people are still enjoying this. as always, love to hear from you.  
> also, as a disclaimer, i actually love robb, even if he does have his faults like all the characters do - we just see more of the faults here because jon isn't at his side all the time and he spends most of his time with the older soldiers or the vanguard.


	8. Chapter 8

She hadn't thought a heart could break so utterly. She'd thought it had broken when Joffrey revealed his ugliness beneath his golden looks, when her father's head rolled down the steps of the Sept.

She hadn't stopped crying for a day. Lilie had left and told Chataya that she wasn't feeling well and to excuse her for the night. She was grateful to the other girl, who had concerns of her own, but she wasn't even able to voice them; her tears had swollen her eyes and stolen all sense from her tongue. She clutched Sharra to her. The harp's pointed edges poked her ribs uncomfortably, but Sharra was the only comfort she had.

Her brothers were dead. Bran, who had only ever wanted to be a knight and loved the songs as much as she had, and Rickon who had only been a baby. Dead. As dead as Father.

Sharra dug into her stomach and breasts as she clutched it tighter to her, weeping. Lilie had set a cup of water at her side long ago but she hadn't touched it yet. She strummed her fingers across the chords and hiccuped at the discordant sound. She thought of Robb and Mother and Jon and Arya – Mother, Robb, and Jon were lost in the battlefield fighting for freedom and justice, and Arya was somewhere out there on her own. On her own or dead.

Sansa couldn't bear the thought of anyone else dying. Her flight from King's Landing would only mean something if she weren't alone. She wanted to go home so badly. She wanted her old room in Winterfell, to hear Septa Mordane give her a lecture of the behavior of proper ladies, to bicker with Arya and conspire with her as they used to before Sansa had gotten the idea of marriage so firmly stuck in her mind, she wanted to play knights and ladies with Bran and sing to Rickon and hug Robb, tell her father that she loved him, and for her mother to tuck her into bed, she wanted to apologize to Jon for not being the sister she should have been. The fantasy was made all the worse because at one point she'd had that in her life; it had not been a dream. That had once been her life, _her song_ , and it had ended when she'd come south to marry a golden boy who wasn't the sun but the shadow of it.

She didn't dream of fair princes or gallant knights, she dreamt of the chill in the bones of Winterfell, she dreamt of her family, and sometimes when she would wake, she would forget where she was. She would wake and wait for the sounds of home, and then the dream would fade entirely and she would be alone.

None of them were here with her, even when they were dying off one by one, she was alone. She only had Sharra. She pressed her face to her pillow and tried to calm herself as she'd taught herself to do while at court. Breath and let the pain drain away as if letting blood to rid it of poison, calm the tremors that shook her body and try not to show how much she hated them.

A hand smoothed down her back. She recognized the smell of Alayaya's perfume. It wasn't home, but it was close enough.

“Shhh Alayne. There, there Alayne. It hasn't been so long, only two days,” she soothed with a hint of laughter in her voice, but it was kind. Sansa only felt more wretched when she continued. “Dancy always comes back.”

She'd forgotten all about Dancy's disappearance upon hearing the news of Bran and Rickon. She let Alayaya shush her. “Are you afraid for her?” Alayaya asked more seriously when she didn't reply.

Yes, she was afraid for Dancy now that she remembered to be afraid for her, but she feared for her family more. “Yes,” Alayne whispered back, voice thick with sorrow. She hated herself for lying when Alayaya was being kind, and she hated herself for not thinking of Dancy – with child and alone and missing for days.

Alayaya was quiet for a moment. “I won't lie to you Alayne, but King's Landing is a dangerous place and these are dangerous times. I can't tell you that she is certainly safe. But it is always better to have a little hope. She's disappeared like this before, seeing that knight of hers. She'll try her best to come back.”

Alayne's hands fisted on her pillow. Mother, Robb, and Jon would try their best to win, and had done so well – but would it last? She prayed to the Seven and the Old Gods even though she couldn't visit a Sept or a godswood, but either they didn't hear her, or they didn't care to. “And if she doesn't?” She was afraid of the answer. For her family's sake and for Dancy's.

“Then she doesn't,” Alayaya said. “But we will know she tried to.”

Alayne flipped on her back. Her chin trembled. “Is that enough? What if something awful happened to her?” How could it be enough? How?

Alayaya dipped her sleeve into the untouched cup of water and began dabbing at Alayne's eyes. “We take what we can, Alayne. Sometimes it has to be enough, even if we know in our hearts it never will be.” She cleaned Alayne's face patiently and stroked her hair. “I hadn't known you'd become so close to Dancy,” she said with a tinge of self-reproach. “I'm sorry.”

Alayne muffled a sob. “I – I didn't know either.”

She'd forgotten Sansa Stark's pain long enough to be surprised and torn asunder by its reemergence. Alayaya's words made her sad. The songs she'd loved as a girl had all been sad too, though, in their own way, but she'd thought them beautiful for it. She knew better now; there was nothing beautiful about sadness. All her tragic songs and tales had just meant that long ago, someone else's heart had broken the way hers had.

Alayaya moved so Alayne's head rested in her lap. “I can't stay long,” she warned. Her fingers threaded through her hair.

Alayne nodded. “I know,” she croaked, not at all ladylike.

Alayaya cradled her as Mother might have, though Alayaya was only a few years older than Alayne, she seemed to be much older and wiser. But living like this, so removed from the life of court, Alayne felt older and wiser, and somehow younger without the nobles on her. Maybe this was why Alayaya seemed older than she was. She untangled a knot from Alayne's hair with her fingers.

She hummed a tune Alayne didn't recognize. Maybe Chataya used to sing this one to Alayaya. If Alayne closed her eyes, she could imagine it was Mother holding her.

 

…

 

Alayne felt wrung out like a sheet recently laundered. The marketplace buzzed with gossip and news, haggling and hollering. She kept her focus and stayed away from the children lurking in the shadows. She'd given them bread before and nothing bad had happened to her, but they had dragged an unsuspecting man into an alleyway and she hadn't seen him reemerge. The guards were only recently doing nightly patrols again and seemed to be stretched thin so there were areas in the city she learned to avoid. She didn't want to vanish again.

At court, she'd heard conflicting news about the war. How many men could possibly be vying to be the king? At least Robb only wanted to be King in the North. Although Renly was already dead.

Some said Tywin Lannister was pushing his campaign further into the Riverlands and burning everything. Others said the King in the North turned into a giant wolf, as big as mountains, and was eating his enemies. Winterfell had fallen and the north would follow suit, they said. No, others said, the old kings of winter would rise from their crypts before a southron king could hold the north. King Robb was the crown they said, but his brother was the sword.

Alayne found it difficult to place Jon Snow in such a role. He'd always been quiet, brooding, but kind. He'd never yelled at her when they'd been children or gotten angry with her when she followed her lady mother's actions in avoiding him. He'd never been a bully, never been anything less than gentle. Except in the training yard. When she was allowed to watch her brothers and Theon fight in the yard under Ser Rodrik's watchful eye, she had seen him fight. Robb had been the strongest, Theon the loudest, but Jon had been the quickest. Even when sparring, he hadn't fought to goad or gloat. He'd fought to win.

Even so, she couldn't imagine him swinging a sharpened blade and taking a castle, winning a battle, but she was happy for him. He'd become a knight, so the rumors were. He'd always wanted to serve with honor – and compared to the knights she knew, the knights who had shown their true colors, she had no doubt that Jon was a true knight. Not all the songs might be lies, if Jon was a knight.

She also heard other stories. Darker ones. Worrying ones.

The draper she liked to visit for cloth was a kindly older man who had four daughters and one wife, and he enjoyed judging her stitching, adding in one or two compliments with a critique that she often took. He was quite knowledgeable and knew which cloth was in fashion where, when the prices would lower, why this and that was taxed the way it was. Alayne always played the curious girl, but it wasn't a lie. She was curious. There was so much she hadn't known, so much that her septa hadn't managed to teach her, nor her mother, nor any books of history. She couldn't imagine why. As a lady, Sansa Stark would've had to marry one day and care for the household. Shouldn't she know about competing merchants and prices, the ways to store food to protect it from vermin and weather? It was almost a relief to ask the people of King's Landing these questions. It made her feel as though she were being taught by a tutor again.

The draper also always had an ear to the ground; he claimed it was why he always had the best prices and materials. Gossip and rumor didn't need to be true to be effective, he'd said to her once after explaining the Lys silk shortage had been designed to make noblewomen buy it in bulk for fear of losing it and the pride of having what might seem like an extinct item in their grasp. They did this approximately every decade, apparently. People had a short attention span to these things, but not him, he'd said, tapping his finger against his temple with a wink.

He loved to talk and loved it more when people listened. So Alayne made a point to listen.

“Can you believe?” he muttered as he ran a gnarled hand over a stretch of linen she would cut and stuff with bog moss for the brothel at large. “I imagine they want to tie the north to the crown as soon as possible. I can't say as to blame them. This is the Seven Kingdoms, not the Six – for the north to even think of breaking free under the guise of our king executing a _known_ traitor when we all know Lord Stark lied and tried to take power, well I daresay it's quite clear the whole family plotted against the crown. I heard that if Jaime Lannister hadn't been in the throne room the day the dragons were vanquished, then Ned Stark would have taken the throne for himself. Can you imagine! He must have been quite cunning indeed to have waited so long. You can't trust a man who can hide something for so long,” he tutted.

Alayne plucked at roll of velvet the color of a rich apple. “How would they tie the north back to them? I heard northerners will only follow a northman,” she mused vacuously. The girl in the Maidenvault – whoever she really was – she had to be the key. Once, _she_ had been called the key to the north. Yet there were no nuptials in sight. Not a word.

“Marriage, my dear girl. They mean to marry off that Stark girl to a most loyal bannerman. She can't marry into the crown or the crown's family, even if it is only on his mother's side – that might be seen as giving a reward to fallen House I suspect, I've heard they're wary of such things, these nobles – but she can marry into a lesser House and still bear sons that will be half-blooded.” He trimmed the length of fabric she requested, piling the two together and folding them expertly, smoothing out any wrinkles. “Mightn't you pick out some more thread? I also have some some exquisite dress patterns from Essos...”

“What House do you think they'd choose?” Alayne picked over the dress patterns. They were very pretty and very revealing. The girls might like that. There were several even she could wear, as modest as she was. She listened to the shuffle of the old draper's movements, of the sounds of people passing by. “To put in the north, I mean. I only know some but I don't know all the Baratheon bannermen...” A lie, but not entirely. She wasn't certain anymore which of Renly's men had joined the crown and which had chosen Stannis.

“I heard they might choose a Lannister bannerman. Ser Gregor Clegane,” the old man nattered and Alayne's stomach swooped.

A Lannister bannerman, _the_ _Mountain_ , Lord of Winterfell even if it was only in name and a fabrication at that. He'd almost killed Ser Loras at the tourney, had split his steed's neck for doing only what was in its nature, impossible to resist.

“Perhaps be for the best,” the old man went on, “I'd think the girl would need a firm hand if she's from such a treacherous family. Must be in the blood. I don't imagine the crown would be able to entrust a northman to properly take her to task.”

Why not a Lannister, but no, the old man might be right, mightn't he? A _reward_ for a fallen House. She could have laughed if she didn't want to sob. As if being married into the Baratheon or Lannister fold would not be a hell in and of itself. To give her home, her family name, her body, her mind, and any children from the union to the very people who sought to destroy all that she loved with their intolerable abuse.

She walked off in the direction of the wine seller. She recalled what her father, her real father, had said about the Mountain. The Cleganes, especially Ser Gregor, were loyal to the Lannisters and only to them. The Mountain had been at Tywin's heel when they'd taken the city from the last Targaryen king. He'd killed Elia Martell and her children. Perhaps Tywin Lannister, for it truly had to be Tywin or Cersei although Joffrey might only make the girl in the Maidenvault wed the Mountain because it would be cruelly amusing, chose Ser Gregor with the idea of ousting any Stark claim completely. Unless, she realized with a chill, they were marrying her off to Ser Gregor so that when they eventually found the real Sansa Stark they could simply switch them. They could be clever about hiding her face, her body, her age, her hair. And the only ones who would know would never expose the trickery.

Jayde had once detailed a lovemaking act to her, where there had been two girls bought, and both had had honey colored hair, but they wore masks so the man had never known which girl was which. If he correctly guessed which girl was which, he would win the game. If he couldn't, he had to pay more. He'd lost. Alayne had blushed to the roots of her hair, but the thought was sobering now.

They only had to fool whoever wanted to be fooled, and in King's Landing, everyone did. Perhaps it didn't really matter who had Sansa Stark so long as they could bide time until the north was secure; she was either truly dead or in hiding. If the north was won before Sansa was found then it wouldn't matter; it was said only a northman could hold the north, but if they successfully snuffed out the rest of the Starks, they wouldn't need the real Sansa.

If the war dragged on and Sansa still wasn't found, they would need their imposter to be impeccable, their cloth doll, so they could tug her strings and through Ser Gregor, claim the north. If they found her – if they found _her_ , she would be wed to Ser Gregor.

The idea filled her with a native terror, the same she'd felt as a child in the dark. But Father wasn't there to smooth her hair with a gentle hand, Mother wasn't there to tell her a story, and Robb wasn't there to let his little sister climb in his bed. There was only Alayne, Sansa, horror-struck at the idea.

But there was another detail to all the stories she'd heard about the girl in the Maidenvault. No one had seen her.

No one but the queen and a select few maids had seen the girl in the Maidenvault, Ser Hugh said, but who knew who he'd heard that from? If that were so, the mystery that shrouded the girl increased twofold. Had there ever been a girl in the Maidenvault, if so few people had seen her?

Alayne finished her chores and hurried back to the brothel, tucking away her expense list in a pocket so she could record it in Chataya's book of record. Her heart beat in her chest frantically, a prisoner within her body beating at the bars of her ribs. She kept her head down, suddenly afraid that if she met the eyes of anyone, they would see her and know who she was. They would see her fear.

Was there truly a girl there? Had there ever been? Or had they simply been looking for one who might pass while they declared that Sansa Stark of Winterfell had always been in the Maidenvault? If the possible betrothal of the girl in the Maidenvault to the Mountain was to be believed, perhaps they had found their “Sansa” only recently and were taking steps to complete their mummery. Was she real? Was she an illusion? Was she a rumor?

What was the trick? Which was the lie? Where was the trap? Was she only seeing shadows or were her suspicions true?

Alayne's mind feverishly turned over the details again and again like a miser counting his gold in the dark by feel alone. There were stories of mummery, of puppetry, of lies and deceit, yet Alayne couldn't think too carefully of the conclusion she'd come to. She held it in her hands like a burning stone. It smoked her flesh even as she clasped it with all her might. It was unnerving. It was an ugly truth. She turned aside it. _Let there be beauty instead, please, please, please. I do not want this. I do not_. It clawed at her as though she were a shut door and it was some beast trying to come out of the cold.

That night she sang and danced and played cards, told tales of love and comedy, and still, still there was something at the tip of her tongue while she masqueraded as sweet, jolly Alayne.

Some story she knew in the depths of her mind had come together, yet she hadn't quite parsed it out. Something terrible. Something wicked was waiting to be spoken into being. She hesitated because of it; she didn't want to speak it for it would come to life. It was a stone statue that with the correct incantation would open its eyes and move and speak. The world had more than a fair share of monsters and woe. She needn't add to it.

Yet it was there, lurking even after Chataya kindly praised Alayne's efforts in sums and quick thinking, how her wit and loveliness were earning her more clout and coin, how the fright of her being released from the brothel had essentially died.

It was there, a sour bitterness that held her heart in hands that felt like Joffrey's, like Cersei's, like Grandmaester Pycelle's, like the Hound's. As she lay on her side, prepared to sleep, she stared across the small room. Lilie was already asleep, soft swell of her belly just barely showing.

Dancy's bed was still empty.

 

…

 

More nights passed and Alayne dreaded being left to her thoughts. It all came to a startling collision when Chataya woke her one day. It was unusual not only because Chataya never woke her; Alayne was always expected to rise on her own and take up her chores, but it was still dark out when Chataya roused her.

Her firm hand held her shoulder as she directed Alayne to dress quickly. Her full mouth, normally tinted with a cosmetic that made her lips shine the color of gold or berries, was bare. Her hair and dress were perfect, yet there was a strange distress in her movements. “Quickly, quickly,” she urged Alayne. She pinned Alayne's hair in a bun to the back of her head, framing strands of hair around her face and letting others curl against her neck. “We have to move quickly Alayne.”

“Why?” she asked, wide eyed. Chataya was never afraid. Never nervous.

Yet her hands shook.

“There has been news – a friend of a friend has spotted ships carrying an army to King's Landing. They wear a crowned stag in a burning heart,” she said tightly. She cinched Alayne's corset with the ease of one who had been doing this for years. “He means to siege us.”

“The crown will protect us,” Alayne said. _King Joffrey is my one true love_. The words sounded the same as marbles clacking together in a child's game. “King Joffrey will rally the city -”

“The city that does not care because they are still starving. He may have had Littlefinger court the roses and he may have been successful, but what have the people gained so far? Nothing. And they know it. You were there, Alayne. You escaped the riots.” A fine boned hand curled around her jaw, lifted her face so Chataya could look into her eyes. “Tell me, would those men and women and children fight for their king? Would they cry his name for victory?”

No, they wouldn't. They'd torn the High Septon apart in the streets and ate him. She shook her head slowly, afraid of what Chataya might say about her lack of faith in their king, but the woman only nodded once.

“Never believe nobles, Alayne. They are all liars. They serve themselves first and foremost. Now come, up, put your shoes on.” Chataya's head whipped to the communal bowl of washing water and dipped a cloth in, patting at Alayne's face while she laced the leather ties over her ankles and calves. “When Stannis arrives, his soldiers will be in the city. Do you know what happens during a siege, Alayne?”

“He'll attack the Red Keep to take the throne,” she said. She knew that was the correct answer from the history she had been taught, but it wasn't the answer Chataya had wanted.

“He will. Once the city is brought to heel. Do you know what happens during a siege?” she asked again, pressing the question.

Alayne shook her head slowly.

Chataya's dark eyes glittered with the candlelight that flickered and served as the only light in the room; it wasn't even dawn yet. “Men will have their blood up. The men we see here come for fun and pleasure. The men who will storm the city will do to it what they will do to women. They will take what they can, and break what they can't.” Alayne's sharp gasp didn't deter Chataya from continuing. “We need more supplies. I've arranged for sellswords to guard us until this is over. Even if he disapproves of what his men will do, they will do it. A king doesn't have a thousand eyes, not even one such as Stannis.” She handed Alayne a list. She had never gone shopping so often. It had only been three nights since she'd last been in the market. “Get these things. Get more ale, more food. We will have men to feed very soon.” She laid a knife on Alayne's bed. It was small and rather thin, but was finely crafted. It was plain, without any decoration, and the bulbous top of it tapered down to a flat crossguard only the length of her index finger. “That goes around your ankle or in your dress pocket. You are not to go anywhere without it anymore.” For a moment, Chataya's eyes went to Dancy's untouched bed before she held Alayne's gaze again. “Do you understand?”

Alayne nodded, dazed. Shae had a knife like that. She'd used it to save Sansa. She'd killed a man with it. Alayne dutifully slid the knife in a supple sheath Chataya provided, made of deerskin and wrapped in linen, and put it in her dress pocket.

“Will Stannis really let them do that?” It wasn't even the fault of the people in the city – it was all Joffrey's fault, and Cersei's. Chataya and Alayaya and Shae and the baker and the draper and the children and the wine seller – none of them were at fault. Why would they suffer? Why would Stannis let his men do that if he was a good man, a good king? Why? “I thought he was a fair man.”

Chataya pursed her lips. She laid a cool hand on Alayne's cheek. “Maybe. Perhaps. But he cannot account for every one of his men, can he? These small things, he will let them happen, because he wants to be a king and men turn into beasts during war. It is difficult to hold them back even for the greatest man. But perhaps he will be better and surprise me.” Alayne didn't think Chataya sounded very optimistic.

“Go to the market Alayne, and come straight back. We will continue with business as usual until we see those ships, because when we do, we must prepare ourselves to weather the storm.” Chataya pressed a dry kiss to her forehead, murmured something in a flowing language that sounded like a river flowing over smooth rocks, and ushered her off. “Do not stay out Alayne. Don't go anywhere with anyone.”

Alayne took her hooded cloak, brown and dull and worn, and hurried on her way, list clutched in her hand. Chataya wasn't only worried about Stannis. Dancy had been away for too long.

Alayaya had said Chataya tried to protect them; she worried for the women under her roof. But not even a woman like Chataya had a thousand eyes.

She'd heard it said from her Father, from Lord Eddard Stark, that Stannis Baratheon was a hard man, but honest and true. Weren't kings meant to be honest and true? Could a person hold these qualities and still be inadequate for kingship? Wasn't an honest man always good? She called to mind the court of King's Landing; they were indeed vipers, they were poisonous traps and opportunists, vultures waiting in the shade of trees for one of their own to falter and be torn apart so they might more easily pick at the remains, and they were all liars.

 _If not even honest men were good men, where had they all gone?_ Alayne wondered and she mourned the death of the men in the songs she'd believed. It seemed the only good man left had died in King's Landing. He had confessed to something he'd never done and then he bled over the stone steps, legs kicking as though his body had tried to rise to his knees so he might find his head.

The marketplace was abuzz, as always, but no one cared about the war that had taken the Riverlands, or the ironborn who had taken the north, or the girl in the Maidenvault, or the king or the Tyrells. Stannis was the only name on their lips.

The daughter of a woman who sold fruit ate a slice of melon and offered half to Alayne. She always ordered Essosi fruit from them in bulk once she'd found out that her mother's cousin was a captain so the prices were lower. Her daughter claimed that Stannis's advisor was a witch. “They burned the Seven,” she'd said with great big eyes. “He's forsaken the gods, how are we to manage if he's crowned?”

“He's set aside his wife. The Tyrells are playing the king for a fool; Lady Margaery ordered the death of King Renly when he couldn't give her a babe and now the Tyrells will turn on us when Stannis's ships arrive. Then Maid Margaery will wed Stannis,” a butcher said knowingly as he tallied his goods. Alayne had ordered pounds of dried meat and fresh cuts, keeping in mind that this would have to feed not only the women, but the men that Chataya had hired. She ordered more dried meat in the event the siege was long. She'd read about sieges that lasted weeks, months, and knew that King's Landing needed little more than a gentle nudge to devolve into the rage and desperation the Bread Riot had been birthed from.

“He's got a priestess from the east,” the midwife said. She piled tea leaves and bundles of herbs into a cloth and tied it tightly, slipping a paper with instructions written on it. “Follows some fire demon.” She held up a gnarled, wrinkled finger. “Mark me, girl. That burning heart of his is more than a sigil.”

A brewster and her husband bickered back and forth in front of Alayne while she tried a sip of their various ales. Alayne liked the one made with mulberry the best, but ale in general was too bitter for her. She preferred sweeter wine. The brewster had begun explaining what ale was made with what until her husband gruffly said they might as well cast their entire stock in the bay what with Stannis coming. Alayne inquired as to why, the answer painted a clearer image of Stannis.

“He hates drinking, hates whoring, hates septons -” he groused. His wife nodded grimly.

“And now that he's gone and burned images of the Seven, how are we to know we'll be allowed to pray to them? The likes of us and the silk street will have to go when he takes the crown, but may the gods bless our King Joffrey,” she added hurriedly.

Her husband rolled his eyes so exaggeratedly Alayne had the errant thought they might fall out of his head. “Bless him,” he muttered, “but we're all finished once Stannis breaks in the city. Oh there'll be looting and the like and what else could you expect from a war, but it's what'll come after. After his men have their fill, then once Stannis takes the throne, _he'll_ have his fill.” He took a long drink from his own stock, never minding his wife batting at him with a cloth she'd pulled from her apron. “Best hope Good King Joff holds the city. Or we may all lose,” he said, beer dripping into his beard. He gestured to Alayne. “You girls won't have anything to do, be tossed out on the streets. I'd say you'd be made to be Silent Sisters, but who knows with that fire god he follows.”

His wife didn't say anything, just gave Alayne a knowing look.

She ordered more ale, crossing it off her list and paying, and they remarked they would have it delivered later that day.

The people were telling with their reactions about the inevitable clash fast approaching. They hated Joffrey, or at least didn't love him, but they feared Stannis. She couldn't tell who most people would prefer on the throne. She knew she would infinitely prefer Stannis, but if he was king, then what would happen to the people he seemed to deem as unnecessary? Alayne didn't desire King Joffrey as a king, she didn't even want him to be alive, but she couldn't say what she thought of Stannis from the perception of a commoner, a simple bastard girl only trying to survive the same as everyone else and not through the eyes of Sansa Stark.

She arrived back at the brothel in good time, though the sun was high in the sky and beat down mercilessly. The air was humid, and the stench of the streets washed away once she stepped back inside her home. It smelled of faraway spices and merriment and wine.

Chataya waited at the top of the stairs in a different dress. It bared her left breast with wide sleeves that flared out like wings. She let her gaze catch on Alayne's figure and she waited until Alayne smiled and dipped into an informal curtsy. Chataya didn't react, but she tipped her head elegantly and then she went back to regarding the waiting area of her brothel before vanishing into the corridor behind her.

Alayne ascended and found Chataya in her office, her book of record open. She smoking a long stick rolled with leaves that smelled like sweet woodsmoke. Alayne sat at her side and began recording her purchases under the date.

“People are afraid,” she commented.

“This is King's Landing, my dear. They are always afraid,” Chataya said. Smoke curled out of her mouth and nostrils as though she were a dragon.

“They're afraid of Stannis.” She worried at her bottom lip.

“Of course they are. He's a king fighting for a crown. Did you know there are other ways to starve?” Chataya looked over what she wrote and gave a nod of approval. “Nobles have a different way of starving from us, Alayne. We will starve for want of food. A noble will starve for want of a title, a crown, a castle.” She gave Alayne a silver from the coin purse she had returned to Chataya. “And all these kings, they are starving.”

Alayne thought of the High Septon, screaming in a high pitch as he was dragged into the street and torn apart. It was like that, she thought. Only the High Septon was the Seven Kingdoms and the people were but the Five Kings.

“Has Dancy come back?” she asked. She didn't want to think about battle anymore. It made her queasy. 

Chataya only blinked at her, long and slow like a cat sunning. She hadn't, Alayne knew like she'd always known, that she wouldn't.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you all for reading and commenting. i'll start trying to clarify some things if there's questions, unless the answer to those questions happens to be a spoiler. as always, i'd love to hear from you all.
> 
> and thank you all so much for the positive reception to the last chapter! the jon featured here is drawing more from the books and s6 jon and tbh his chapters are interesting to write although i do get some battle fatigue when writing them, even if this is his current arc (lol). 
> 
> more intrigue with sansa/alayne, some paranoia, and some possibly truly horrific implications. i'm writing her with the knowledge that she's intelligent and observant, and she learning from a group of strong women doing their best to make the most of their situations (instead of LF), as well as listening to the people around her.


	9. Chapter 9

Sansa

There were truths in life that Sansa had come to expect, truths she never imagined could be challenged.

One of them was that fire could not engulf water. Water might steam, but it wouldn't burn.

And yet...and yet.

The Blackwater burned green; a vile twist on a color that should have belonged to life, to spring and tender new grass, but now it swallowed the night, bringing with it death. The stars and the moon vanished beneath the onslaught of the unnatural fire she had only ever read about while in Winterfell.

Sansa watched from the open window, crowded by Lilie and Bess. They clutched one another tightly, like squirrels to a tree. Sansa imagined she could hear the roar of men fighting for their lives, for kings who didn't know their names or families, while they banged bloodied hands against the city gates as the water burned. The three young women remained like that, like all the women in the brothel, clutching one another while the terrible outcome was anticipated like the sound of an executioner's blade being drawn.

They wouldn't know what would happen until the next day, when it would be announced that Tywin Lannister had rode in with Tyrell forces and saved King's Landing from Stannis Baratheon, the kinslayer come to kill his own nephew. Good King Joff had repelled his uncle and protected his kingdom, his crown and birthright.

But all through the night, the mercenaries Chataya had hired stalked the bottom floor with their weapons at the ready, and the doors were barred, the normally open windows were pinned shut. And still the fires burned and people screamed in terror when it spread across the water looked like it might jump to their homes.

Sansa watched from the window she had cracked against Chataya's wishes as that fright leapt from one to the next person, changing them. It was sinister. There was no other word for it. All it took was to see fear on another person and it ignited a similar emotion in another one. It spread like a disease. _Like wildfire,_ she thought.

Someone would furiously beat at the doors from time to time, and would stop, and there would be men yelling, women yelling, and the sellswords would meet the call. Those moments felt like a lifetime, an swift inhalation that was stoppered until the doors slammed shut once again and the sellswords returned the calm with violence. It was not without irony that she considered it, though she regarded it with a sour discomfort.

But then morning came, but it wasn't the wretchedness she had forced herself to prepare for. The sun rose and the city, already awake, slowly began to move in its usual fashion. It was as though everyone wanted to collectively ignore what happened, as though it had been a nightmare to be forgotten in the light of day. 

It had not been a nightmare. Sansa had seen the Blackwater burn.

Bess sagged against her and wept into the crook of her neck, and Sansa clutched her tightly. Lilie sat down heavily on her bed.

“They've gone. They've gone, thank the Seven, we're safe,” Lilie chanted, hands folded before her belly.

“They'd have had us,” Bess wailed, “They'd have had all of us.”

Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat. She hated Joffrey and Cersei with all her heart, but even she feared the unknown of Stannis and his men. She couldn't say whether she felt disappointed or relieved at this outcome. She squeezed her eyes shut and refused to cry. Alayne Rivers had survived the trek through the Riverlands during war and Sansa Stark had been hostage to the lions. She would not weep over this. Even when the gods seemed to answer her prayers, they spat and laughed at her. She would not weep for them, too.

 

Jon

 

“The water burned.”

“Aye, burned green. Somethin' the Imp conjured.”

“Heard a sorcerer made his home in King's Landing. I hope we don't have to fight fuckin' magic now, with the way things are going. We'll all be turned into frogs.”

“You jest, but my mother saw a woodswitch once. She told her how she'd die. And she was right. She was right.”

“She was right. She died taking my cock up her arse!”

“Prick. She drowned, slipped and fell in a river. The witch told her she would.”

“It's not magic, you idiots. It's wildfire. Something those bastards at the Citadel made. Targaryens too, fire obsessed cunts that they were. It burns and not even water can put it out. Like dragonfire, but you don't need magic. Any man can make it.”

“Liar. You're lying.”

“It's a recipe. Like poison, you fool. Don't have to be magic to poison someone, do you?”

“And we're meant to go fight them.”

“What?”

“He said it – you don't need magic for it. The Imp lit their own waters on fire. Were it bad enough, d'you think he'd not hurl it over their walls at us?”

The men drank heavily, a grim dread settling over them. The topic was discarded for other lighter material that was easier to digest.

Jon cleaned Hecatomb while he waited for Lord Gregor to finish speaking to Lord Rodrik; with news of the Tyrells joining forces with the crown, Lord Gregor was concerned with his eldest daughter Mira's situation as Lady Margaery's handmaiden.

“She'll be right in that nest of vipers,” his lord had sighed.

 _Aye_ , Jon had thought. _Like my father and sisters_.

The dangers of King's Landing seemed never ending.

The Battle of Blackwater was nearly the sole focus of the men's gossip now that they were dry with full bellies. Still, idleness would breed some sort of devilry in the men one way or another. They'd been fighting and killing and marching too long to just settle down easily. Jon felt the restlessness in his own muscles sinking down into his marrow. He wanted to enjoy the silence, the distance from the battlefield. But instead of repose, it felt like stagnation, like he might just turn to stone. He worried, when he was alone at night, that the battlefield would never leave him even when he left it.

Ghost had wandered off to hunt and so he was left to his own company. Thoughts kept churning in his head. Treasonous thoughts.

He'd considered abandoning the army and turning to the direction of King's Landing, looking for Sansa and maybe finding out where Arya had really gone – perhaps Lady Catelyn's friend in King's Landing might help in the search if the kingslayer wasn't able to make good on his word – which Jon doubted he ever would.

But realistically, he knew it would be folly to do so. With Stannis's forces only freshly defeated the city would be on high alert. And if Sansa was kept in the Maidenvault – he had no idea how he would slip in without alerting anyone. He wouldn't know where she was, which apartment held her, if she had a specific set of guards that were tasked to her alone, if she was indeed in the Maidenvault at all.

One mistake, one slip, was all it would take. And he would be killed, and Robb would be left without the only brother left to him, and Sansa would still be in King's Landing likely on stricter guard.

One error could turn the tide of a battle and Jon wasn't the wide eyed green boy he'd once been. He couldn't assume he wouldn't make one, not when the stakes were so high. There was no middle ground. You win, or you lose. He was tethered like a dog to a post. He and Robb were stuck here, and Sansa was stuck there, and Arya was a bird in the wind.

Rodrik exited with haste from his father's tent, jaw set angrily. “Asher is many things, but he is not a liar, Father,” he snapped. Jon sunk into the shadows and kept his eyes down on Hecatomb. “If he says a woman with dragons is conquering Essos and killing slave masters - ”

“You are not a boy, Rodrik. Do not speak to me as though you are one throwing a fit over a sweet,” Lord Gregor growled. “I know Asher isn't one for fibs. But for me to approach the King with only rumor and speculation for something Asher has yet to see for himself is absurd. Especially Targaryen matters. The history there is older than you, and dark. We must concern ourselves with the war here, or we lose sight of the goal.” Lord Gregor's hand clapped onto Rodrik's shoulder. “Write to him – discreetly – and ask if he can corroborate this with merchants or otherwise provide us some proof. I won't risk feuding with the Whitehills for nothing.”

Rodrik sighed. “Asher never writes, Father. He's never written until this. I think – I believe – whatever this is has him concerned.”

There was a stretch of silence and then Gregor made a murmur of agreement. “As do I. That we need proof, remains, however.”

“I understand – and I'm sorry.”

“You're a good brother and a good man. You had reason to worry.”

“Someone with a Dothraki horde and an army of Unsullied is reason to worry, particularly if they're a Targaryen and declaring it for the whole world to hear.”

Targaryen? They were all dead. What was Asher talking about, dragons, and armies, and Targaryens? Asher hadn't ever lied – he'd been perhaps too honest – but Jon couldn't fathom why he would be saying such impossible things unless they were true, which they couldn't be. What was happening in Essos?

Lord Gregor met his eyes, and nodded once, dismissing him from guard duty.

He made his way over the pit fires further away from his lord's tent, drawn by the smell of food bubbling.

Gared smiled when he spotted him. “Ser Jon,” he greeted.

Jon's nose wrinkled, though there was a part of him that was pleased. He'd earned it and it was his, no one else's. “Gared – what is it?”

He bumped his shoulder into Jon's and led the way to a small pit fire where Bowen was already tucking into a stew. “There's stew and I didn't see you eat,” Gared said, abashed. He'd been teased for his tendency to worry, but he was an older brother. Jon sympathized. “Word is that Lord Edmure is to marry a Frey and so are your sisters, once we save them. And we'll have a proper royal wedding soon,” he said evenly, almost cheerful.

“Because we need those rat-faced fucks and they're pissed they haven't got a rat-faced queen out of an alliance with us,” Bowen grumbled. His eyes were narrowed at a small gathering of Freys. Black Walder was among them.

“Quiet, Bowen,” Gared hushed him, nervously regarding the soldiers. “You've noticed, haven't you Jon?”

He had. The Freys had been particularly cool towards their Northern and Riverrun allies since King Robb had announced his marriage to Jeyne. It had been an admittedly hasty affair and the hopes among the men were that there would be a proper celebration now that they were in Riverrun. Lady Jeyne was lovely, but not lovely enough to break a promise to such an unenthusiastic ally. He'd told Robb of it once, and then again when he'd had more to drink and he and Robb had nearly come to blows. It had been in private, thankfully, so no one could charge Jon with the idea that he was being a jealous bastard brother.

Robb had given him the cold shoulder for a bit, but thawed once they were marching again. Since Jon had been knighted, it was easier for Robb to approach him and less concerning for the Northerners. With their brothers dead and their sisters missing, there was only Robb and Jon in the male line of the Starks – and Jon was seen as a hero.

If that delicate balance was upset, it might look to some as though Jon were preparing to take aim at that crown on his brother's head. If he avoided him entirely, it could look resentful.

But Jon saw the crown for what it was. A tangle his brother was caught in, ensnared like a hare in a trap. A hare that now had to woo the snubbed Freys.

Their attitude was telling. They whispered and spoke amongst themselves, built fires for only them, and turned their backs on outside company.

At least Lady Catelyn seemed to have swayed them to remain at their side. A tie to the Tully lordship, and two more ties to the northern crown. They had both more and less than they had bargained for – and from the stories of old Walder Frey, Jon doubted he'd accepted those terms so graciously. Jon gave a hum of agreement, but didn't pursue it further than that.

There was a nervous tension like the taut tremble of a drawn bowstring, but Jon couldn't see the arrow.

It had remained like that since the execution of Lord Karstark. Even the lords fully supportive of Robb's decision to mete out the king's justice were hesitant to say the timing was right. The Karstarks were an old northern house, with bannermen, and were considered kin to the Stark family itself, and Lord Karstark's actions might have been shameful, a direct rebellion to their king's orders, but they were not seen without sympathy. The lords weighed the score better than some of the men in the army even if some held the same opinions of their men. 

The men gossiped as badly as they often joked women did – nothing seemed to escape their notice and rumor-making.

“If a family can't avenge itself...”

“...should never have let the kingslayer go. We haven't got anything to barter now.”

“The lady misses her daughters...”

“There's only one daughter left in the south, and she might be carrying a lion's cub by now. We could have used him to finish the war sooner. I miss my daughter, too.”

The whispers had grown bolder, more aggrieved.

“He killed prisoners of war,” Robb had told him over an ale. His eyes had been wide and wet, and Jon felt older than he ever should have. “Hostages. Unarmed _boys_ , he killed Riverrun guards,” he'd gasped after he took another long swill. “What was I supposed to do?” he'd asked. Jon hadn't answered, thinking it was rhetorical, but Robb repeated the question, his voice cracking like fine glass. “Tell me, what should I have done?”

Jon would have executed him as well, truth be told. He'd committed treason – but Lady Catelyn had released the kingslayer and committed it as well, yet she hadn't been punished aside from being locked in her apartment like a child, yet she was the king's mother. He wasn't entirely certain what, if anything, he would have done differently had he been in Robb's position. “I would have executed him,” he admitted. But he wouldn't now, having witnessed some of the consequences from that decision. Treasonous though the lord had been, he'd been executed during wartime. Would it have been better to postpone his execution? Jon doubted it.

He took a long drink. “What did Lady Catelyn say?” She was better equipped to fight the war better than they were. Nothing rattled her until Robb had refused to trade for Sansa. Then all that grief she'd so carefully bottled up and been unleashed like a sudden summer storm.

Robb had gone quiet, pouring more ale into his cup. “She agreed with my uncle. They would have made Lord Karstark a hostage. If anyone else had done what he'd done, they'd have hanged. I hung his men for just keeping watch, for aiding their lord. How could I let Lord Karstark live when it had been his will and his sword as well?”

Jon had lowered his cup, staring into the fire. They'd more often had these sorts of conversations late into the night, side by side, speaking of the war and all its troubles as though they were men twice the age they were. While it wouldn't have been Jon's first choice to make a hostage of the lord, he wasn't able to so easily turn aside the fact that Lady Catelyn had agreed with it.

The woman might hate him for being another's child, for looking like his lord father, but throughout the war, through rumors and letters that Robb read aloud, through her actions before the war began in earnest and during it, she had more than proven that though she was lady, she was a lady of war and vengeance in her own right. It was something Jon paid attention to, low to the ground as he'd remained around her – Lady Catelyn knew of more ways to fight a war than just on the battlefield.

“Why didn't you heed her?” he'd asked.

Robb's shoulders slackened as though he'd suddenly lost all strength in his body. “I know how the lords feel about my mother right now, Jon. If I continue to heed her advice all the time, rely on her for everything, then I won't be a king. I'll be a boy with a cloth crown clinging to his mother's skirts; men don't follow boys and expect to win. She wasn't wrong about this, but she wasn't right either.”

“Like with the kingslayer and Sansa,” he'd pressed. Jon watched his brother turn to him slowly.

Instead of a face flushing an angry red, or a vehement denial, Robb had only surrendered more of his strength. “Like with the kingslayer,” he'd agreed so softly it was nearly buried beneath the sound of the fire popping before them. “I thought it would be best to bargain for a shorter war, and during negotiations we could get her back. I didn't want to trade one for the other and still need to fight a whole war when we had Tywin's pride and joy under our keeping. Not that it matters anymore,” he said bitterly.

He'd been right about that; whatever plans Robb had had for the kingslayer ultimately being the thing that would unmake the Lannister forces no longer mattered. It would have been a difficult task to not hold it against him, against Lady Catelyn. Jon hadn't managed it. “What plans do you have now, Your Grace?” he'd asked evenly. Robb shot him a dark look.

“Don't call me that now, Snow.” He'd sighed and sunk into his chair, one leg extending. “Now we've no choice but to meet the south in a campaign, however long that takes. If we retreat and oust the ironborn in Winterfell now,” and there, his fists had clenched, “then we stand to lose any ground we've made here.”

“It's your home,” Jon countered. It was his too, in his heart, in his wishes and dreams, but he was only a bastard and a knight sworn to Lord Gregor. He could not seek to inhabit all the places his kingly brother did; it recalled a bygone age of the Targaryens and the Blackfyres. Nonetheless, he wanted to reclaim it because he had grown up there with his father and siblings. It was, and would always be, his home even when it couldn't be.

“Winterfell will still stand, I know it. And when we turn homeward, we'll take it back from them, the craven shits. And Theon Greyjoy will meet northern justice.”

He'd sounded so sure, so confident, that there was a part of Jon that wholly believed Robb would win this war, win their home, and almost all would be avenged and well. There remained yet another piece of him, cynical and shaped in the way war shapes men, that doubted his brother's confidence.

Now, looking at the Freys within sight with Gared and Bowen at his sides, Jon felt his unease take on a life of its own. Nothing seemed out of order; it was known the Frey family was displeased with Robb's secondary offer, with the broken promise of a northern king, displeased that the kingslayer had been released on his honor, yet there was a trick of the light. Like shadows dancing on a wall, making shapes of things that may or may not be there. Jon hadn't lived through this war with just the skill of his sword hand alone; he'd made a point to be observant even when he'd only been the bastard of Winterfell.

As Ser Jon, the White Wolf – or Bastard Wolf as he'd heard was becoming the more popular moniker – there was an enemy he couldn't see, couldn't hear, but knew was there, watching. Waiting. Like an ambush. Another trap set to spring.

“They're our allies,” Jon said loudly. “They're fighting this war with us as brothers.” He trusted them, these fellow soldiers, as they had the honor and integrity of their House; they were fighting this war alongside them. They bled with them, killed with them, died with them. At least, he trusted that them thinking he didn't trust them wouldn't do any good.

Bowen grunted. “Suppose so. I can't wait for the wedding though,” he added and he turned back to his stew. “There'll be some good roasted meat, and ale, and wine, and women.”

Gared quirked a half smile at him. “It'll be nice. Might be some dancing. A celebration, a real one, would do us all some good.”

The fire where some Frey men sat was quiet though they watched them openly. They offered no wine, and none came over at the sound of laughter.

“You just want to squeeze into a pretty dress,” Bowen drawled. Gared flushed.

“Easy Gared, he's only hoping he'll finally have someone that might dance with him then,” Jon laughed at him. Black Walder was observing them as well. _Stop it, damn it. They're our allies_. _You don't win friends by looking for enemies_. Even so, Jon had killed a northman when he'd found him raping a westerland woman, but that had been different. The Freys were upset, as could be expected, but they had already chosen a side in this war.

“Fuck off,” Bowen shot back with a grin.

Jon shunted aside his suspicion to bask in the feeling of companionship and a little levity. All the grimness was bound to kill him. A celebration would do them all some good, after the loss of so much morale. Was it too much to ask for a moment of peace? A small sliver of respite? Even if he had to force himself to enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't usually like split pov chapters, but they were both necessary and i wanted to move the timeline along, there's also about two months worth of jump skips between them.


	10. Chapter 10

She didn't know how she'd gotten there, so close to the Red Keep, so she ran from it, but she knew, she just knew everyone knew who she was. Her hair was red, and they called out her name, her secret name. She couldn't see the people who called out to her, but she could hear them.

There was a sound of a wolf's cry in the air, piercing like a lance through her breast. She held her skirts in her hands, and ran, ran through the streets while the sky turned green and she heard the deafening roar of flames that drowned out all sound in the world for a brief moment. She tried to find the source of the wolf, but every turn she made, there was a wall of stone, and every time she turned back, the street would change.

“Lady!” she cried, “Lady!” She knew it was Lady. The first death of her heart, only the first she would suffer while in the south. There was no response and Alayne felt the loss all over – a loss that never belonged to her.

The Maidenvault rose like a monolith from the sea. It was a bird soaring from the ground to block out the sun, the green casting an eerie shade on the stone. Shadows loomed and the doors to an apartment down a corridor that rushed at her as though she'd been flung into it opened with a bang. Within, a lioness roared. A girl lay on the ground, clutching a swollen belly, crying. Her red hair spilled like blood around her neck and face. “Alayne, please Alayne, tell them where I am,” she begged. “I just wanted to have my baby,” she sobbed.

The lioness put a paw on her stomach and the beast changed to a beautiful woman with golden hair wearing a red gown. “Look what you've made me do,” she said. “Look at it. None of this would have happened if you weren't selfish. Such a cowardly fool. Look what you've done.” Her hand went into the girl's stomach, and she screamed, and there was the wail of a baby, and Alayne screamed, but the door slammed shut in front of her and she was outside of the Red Keep again, watching Blackwater Bay burn, but it had reached the streets of King's Landing and it washed towards her like a wave.

She stumbled into the Keep, now a crumbling ruin that resembled Harrenhal. She fled the heat of the wildfire beneath her, overtaking everything like a living, hungry thing. But the fire had changed. It was now a hundred faceless soldiers. They spoke no words, but they snarled and yelled like animals. Some wore gold and red, others wore dark leather, some wore little at all, and others were in shining gold plate.

There was no one in the Keep but her, and it was her they chased, climbing over one another to snatch her, tear her apart. But for her and the men, the Keep was a tomb in which every living thing had died long ago.

She flew to a door she recognized and locked herself in. Fists pounded at the door, rattling its hinges. She heard her name called, but she didn't recognize the voice and she prayed the door would hold against the onslaught.

The pounding sound changed. “I can't come in unless you open!” a man yelled, desperate. But he spoke with words, the only one to do so.

She lay her hand on the door and the pounding rhythm changed, loud as a drumbeat in her ears. She slid down the door, clutching a key she hadn't realized she'd had tightly enough for it to cut into her palm. The sounds stopped. She could hear whoever, whatever, was on the other side breathing. “Won't you let me in?” the man asked, voice low and pleading, as though he'd do anything to come in. His voice was pitched low, softly spoken, although he still sounded rough.

_No, no, no. I can't trust you. Who are you, where do you come from?_

“Sansa? Won't you let me in? I wouldn't hurt you, I swear it.” The man didn't knock or beat his fist against the door, but she heard nails scratching at the door, and a whine. A whine that sounded like Lady, like the home Alayne had never belonged to.

Sansa paused but for a moment, then she turned the key and beheld a wolf. It whined again, a keening noise that should never have come from a creature so fearsome. The men, the nameless, faceless soldiers that had chased her, were gone and only their armor remained, torn and bloodied, strewn across the hall. The wolf came to her, slowly, with its head low.

It lay itself in her lap and she set her hand on its great head to comb through its fur.

All of her fear had left her, vanished like a footprint in the sand swept away by the sea. She had no explanation for it; there was no reason for this.

But she felt no fear with this animal, though it had torn all those men to shreds. It had found its way to her through the city, the wildfire, and the soldiers, and yet, it was the tamest thing here. It was a limp pup in her lap. A docile, sweet thing.

“You won't hurt me.” The idea was too preposterous for her to even consider. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell – a wolf would never hurt her.

“Never, I swear it my Lady,” the voice said. The wolf was gone, and a man crouched before her now, head bowed. He wore a black ensemble, and his curly black hair tumbled around his ears and shoulders. His accent was northern, and he sounded so very familiar, but she couldn't place him. “I won't leave you,” he swore.

She woke before he could lift his face to her, before she could place his voice before the dream slipped away entirely from her so she only had the vaguest notion as to what she had dreamt.

Shae sat by her bedside, mouth quirked up on one side. “I was wondering if you'd ever wake up,” she teased gently. “How are you, sweet lady?”

Sansa sat up slowly and her blanket pooled around her hips. “Shae?” she breathed. “Oh Shae!” She couldn't hug her or cling to her – she had never been Alayne to Shae as she had the rest of the brothel. Shae knew her as Sansa. The only one who did. She clutched at Shae's hand. “I worried for you after...”

Shae's lips tightened. “How is Alayaya?”

Sansa's heart dropped. “I still have to put ointment on her back every night, but she's not in as much pain anymore.”

Alayaya had borne the whip in place of Shae, a misdirection Lord Tyrion used so his lord father and sister would not remove Shae from her place as Lady Lollys's handmaid or hurt _her_. Yet he couldn't have been bothered to protect Alayaya, the gentle woman who'd had to sleep on her front for the last week. Sansa was pleased Shae escaped the whip, but she hated that it had been used at all. As though, if indeed Lord Tyrion had sought out Alayaya and made love to her, she could very well have refused him. Though this brothel was kinder to its women, and Chataya was a shrewd caretaker, women couldn't say no anywhere. As a lady, and had she married Joffrey, she would never have been able to tell him no.

It was so wretched that the ones who were unable to say no were the ones who faced punishment rather than the ones who held the power. Sansa was ashamed to admit even to herself that she hated Lord Tyrion a little on behalf of Alayaya – Shae was her friend, and she loved him.

“I love my lion, but I hate his family,” Shae spat, twisting her thin dress in her hands. “How he manages to share blood with them, I will never understand.” Her jaw tightened and she blew out a gusty sigh. “How are you? They haven't made you do anything with men have they? Or women?”

Sansa flushed. “No, nothing like that. Everyone is lovely. I've learned quite a bit, actually.” _I've learned how terrified smallfolk are of change, and I felt the same. I've learned the price of bread, learned that the knights are not knights at all. I saw a knight drag a woman as she screamed into an alley and no one paid any mind to it all. A word from the court always finds its way down here, and the people wait for the blow like frightened children, because what could be done if it affects them? Not until they're desperate, until they're starving_. _The Great Houses may fight over their lands and crown, and go to war with soldiers, but the smallfolk always suffer, it seems. One way or another_.

Shae nodded thoughtfully. “I've heard that Chataya has found herself an entertainer who sings and dances with the men. She's popular.”

Sansa smiled a little. “I enjoy it. I've learned several card games and cyvasse...” _How to budget properly like my lady mother must have learned in a castle, but I've also learned to pay attention to where things come from, who knows whom. I've learned that gold isn't the only way to pay for things; you can trade for goods if you bargain with another stall on their behalf, or if you've heard a rumor, or if you are even kind to someone they may sell it to you for less. I've learned more songs and dances, more stories._

“And I've made friends,” she added. _Bess told me how to kiss a man, how they like it when a woman falls into them as though they've been made breathless. Lilie said some like it when you're tender to them, murmur to them because some men will always miss their dead mothers. Alayaya taught me that there is always a loveliness to every man and to concentrate on what makes them lovely rather than horrible or ugly; no one wants to be unloved or unwanted. I learned that all men want something, the trick is getting them to want what I'll offer instead._ She thought of her mother with a pang, for her mother wouldn't be proud of her daughter learning these things, but she had to survive. Her survival depended on how well she learned.

Shae tugged on her hair and Sansa hurriedly started pushing her blanket off her legs. “I have to start for the day -!”

Shae clucked her tongue. “I told Chataya I was coming. She gave you another rest day. She said you've been working very hard. Have you managed to save some gold?”

Sansa blinked up at her. “Little by little,” she admitted. She'd still had to give Chataya her payment, but now that she had finally learned how to entertain people and not need to lie with anyone, it was easier. She was learning the art of charm and perceptiveness. It was something she'd fostered while at court, but that had been only with courtesies lords and ladies expected; she believed that what she was learning was only expanding her understanding of people.

Since Stannis's forces had been repelled, more men came until the brothel was beyond its comfortable capacity. Alayne had been quite busy. It was something like a celebration even in the face of the continuing war between the north and the south. Games and songs and stories, rumors and whispers and facts. Even away from the court, it never stopped. It would have been a marvel, had it not also been terrible. 

Shae's lips twisted. “Not enough to leave?”

No, not nearly enough to leave yet. But Sansa clung to her hope that she would see her family again, what remained to her. She would find her way back to them, because that's what Arya would have done. Arya, wild child that she was, might have joined a wolf pack and now ran free in the woods, far, far away from any danger.

Sansa had to find her own means of escape. Shae could only do so much. There were no real heroes to come carry her off to a castle where she would be safe. Alayne was her means of escape. She was her road home.

Alayne could charm and watch and listen; the coin was steadily growing in her locked chest.

She's had several men come back frequently to watch her dance and play the harp, for the opportunity to be entertained while they waited. There were knights, whom Sansa believed couldn't afford to lay with the girls, who often came by to drink ale or wine and watch her. There was one knight, whose name she couldn't recall, but the coat of arms he wore once – a brown bear paw against a white background in a double brown tressure – was familiar to her. He'd won against Jory in the Hand's tourney. He'd never asked to dance with her, but he enjoyed her singing, and would always leave a coin in the beautiful box Prince Jalabhar had given her.

These were her triumphs, her victories won in the name of a greater good. Alayne worked so Sansa might go home. She treasured them. She'd find her way home and her mother would see her, would know her no matter what color her hair was, no matter how she was dressed, or what company she was in, and she would run into her arms and they'd hold each other. Home was her mother's arms, it was Robb's smile, it was even the sight of Jon, who had gone from sullen boy to a named knight in their brother's army. She would find her way back to them.

And she thought of Dancy. The one who had taken Alayne under her wing reluctantly, but had a warm heart beneath her bluster. The empty bed that accused Sansa of her silence, and damned her for it. Dancy had no family to think of, no one to flee to. She only had the babe in her belly that she had to think of. Dancy had only had the women in the brothel to run to.

Sansa's dream was a fog, lost even to her, but there was a piece that remained to her. The girl locked in the room with the lioness. Alayne would be Sansa's escape, but who would be Dancy's? There was no knight who would come to save them, either of them.

Hesitantly, Sansa turned to Shae. “Shae...there's something I must ask. I think something terrible happened, but I'm not sure. I need help,” she rasped. She'd always needed help; her father, Septa Mordane, Shae, Chataya, Alayaya, Bess, and Dancy – how could she not at least try to help when there was every possibility she might be able to? Even if it was only solving an awful mystery, the answer she feared she knew to the unspoken question she'd tried to lock away.

Shae's lips thinned and she held Sansa's hands in hers. “Tell me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fairly short chapter, but this is a check-in with sansa before we go back to jon, including a rather terrible clue as to who is orbiting her periphery. for the record, sansa's dream is in no way prophetic. it's a dream featuring all the things she knows/fears/hopes for in some fashion. 
> 
> and yeah, sansa really did think 'fuck tyrion rights'


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a heads up since some people really dislike any other character interactions (sexual or romantic) that aren't the main pair; jon/a woman not sansa, very temporary obviously, but still exists here. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Jon couldn't relax his jaw. His teeth might well be dust once dawn rose. “You're pardoning Lord Bolton's bastard?” His question, sharp and incredulous, made Lady Catelyn's shoulders tense, but she made no attempt to rebuke him. It was odd that they were of similar mind in this. War made strange allies.

Robb sucked on his teeth before he gave a measured answer. “Ramsay Snow avenged Winterfell. The ironborn had burned the castle and winter town. Some survivors that remained were escorted to the Dreadfort, the rest remained in Winterfell in hopes of preparing it for our return.”

“His blood is tainted not only from his bastardy, but the reprehensible deeds he is personally responsible for: rape, murder, torture. He forced himself on a highborn lady and kept her in a tower. I cannot ascertain how he was reared, but while Lord Bolton is a cold man, he is no mad dog. His bastard is, yet we are to commend him for such grisly service? To forget what he did to our own people in light of the new direction of his cruelty?” Lady Catelyn spat. Her blue eyes regarded the open letter on the table between them and the thin strip of leather curled on top of it.

A prize, a consolation of pain and torture for a grieving family, courtesy of Ramsay Snow.

 _Good_ , Jon had thought viciously when Lord Bolton had revealed the letter and the source of the leather to them when Robb had called he and Lady Catelyn to his side upon receiving news. _Make shoes and a saddle of his salt-born hide for the deaths he caused, the betrayal he's sown_ , Jon had thought, snarled, within the confines of his mind. Even still, the warring feelings of satisfaction and disgust grappled. Jon quashed the feeling. _No. No. Look what he did to your brothers, just little ones, to all the people of Winterfell and winter town who knew him_. _He deserves it. Make a sail of him and return it to his father. It's what he deserves_. His imagination tried to produce the skinning of Theon Greyjoy, but it was too wretched and so he turned away from it, a lurch in his gut. He ignored the leather, and tried to ignore the way Lady Catelyn's eyes were drawn to it as though against her will. The aborted movement she'd made toward it when it was first presented to them hadn't escaped his notice either. Robb's face had been thunderous when he'd demanded why Lord Bolton hadn't given him Greyjoy's head and instead only presented the skin from a finger. Lord Bolton had said, in that eerie, soft voice of his that never changed its tone, that Theon Greyjoy was a valuable hostage. Then, Lady Catelyn had dismissed he and Jon, but Jon stayed when Robb commanded it against her wishes.

“A hostage,” Robb said. “We have a hostage,” he repeated. “Lord Bolton speaks true. Theon Greyjoy is more valuable alive than dead for the time being. He's in the Dreadfort, secure and imprisoned, and all his men are dead. He's Lord Balon's only living son.”

“Hostages are exchanged – alive,” Lady Catelyn rebutted stiffly. “So it is certain Greyjoy will live, Your Grace?”

Jon couldn't help himself. He held his tongue often, as was expected of a man before his betters, yet more and more, it loosed from his head. “He killed your trueborn brothers, Your Grace. Burned them and your home, and betrayed your confidence.”

“And lest we forget, Your Grace, the salt kings of the Iron Islands were once chosen by kingsmoot. I cannot imagine, after being a Stark hostage and later losing Winterfell to a northern bastard, that any would stand behind him. He may be Lord Balon's only son, but he is not necessarily the heir to the Seastone Chair.” Lady Catelyn was fierce in her utter decimation of her son's reason for keeping Theon Greyjoy alive. Jon hadn't considered that with the Iron Islands in rebellion and now engaged in raiding and an invasion of the weakened north, that they might revert to their old ways and not simply follow a line of succession.

“Enough. The Iron Islands did away with the kingsmoot long ago – and we have Lord Balon's only male heir. The traitor will not be released until the Iron Islands abides by the North's demands,” Robb interrupted, hand slashing through the air.

“And of the bastard?” Lady Catelyn pressed.

Robb rubbed his eyes. “Lord Bolton suggested a lesser sentence in light of his bastard's actions, but implied the fate of his natural son doesn't concern him as he's already wed to Lady Walda and hopes for another trueborn son.”

 _Lady Catelyn is right,_ Jon thought grimly, _he is a cold man_.

“I would advise you not give him a lesser sentence no matter his actions. A mad dog is still mad, and even a mad dog may once bite the correct person. That is not a pattern, however, it is only luck,” she said, face turning to stone.

“I know, Mother, but we must leave it until the war is done. Ramsay Snow did the north a service, and to punish him now wouldn't be seen kindly amongst the lords or soldiers,” Robb said.

“And you cannot let it set. Let it set, it will settle, and so his actions will be forgotten until he does something else, and then everyone will remember everything. Do not let it fester, Robb. You must not,” she implored, not quite kind or soft, but gentle in a way.

He nodded. His eyes dropped to the table and he spread his hands on the table, leaning on them. “Before we reach the Twins, there is another matter I wish to discuss with both of you. It doesn't concern the lords yet, I'm of a mind to wait on that, but it concerns House Stark first and foremost. With the deaths of Bran and Rickon, the disappearance of Arya, and Sansa's captivity – I am a king without an heir. I am a king at war with no heir. Until Jeyne and I are blessed with a son, the future of House Stark and the north is uncertain. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Robb pulled a tightly rolled scroll from his jerkin, laying it on the table. He tapped it once with a finger. “The north, House Stark, must endure. Jeyne and I remained childless as of yet, so in the event of my death, Jon will be legitimized and made my heir.”

 _No, no, no, no. Not like this. I don't want this. I never wanted this, damn you Robb_. He'd wanted this as a boy, never realizing the realistic cost of such a thing. Even now as a knight, slowly rising on his own merits, this was a secret jealousy that remained only a burning brand of shame. _Don't do this. This can't be_. Once a dream, now a nightmare. His wish as a boy had killed his brothers, scattered his sisters, beheaded his father. It was a ridiculous thought, yet it remained. He couldn't just profit from the deaths of his family.

“No!” Lady Catelyn shouted, suddenly animated. A statue made flesh, blue eyes wide and furious. “You treat your sisters as if they're already dead – you cannot legitimize Jon Snow while they are alive and you might have children. Robb, do not do this. I beg of you, as your mother.”

“A king needs an heir and we are at war, Mother. If I fall, then someone must protect the north.”

“The Targaryen's reign was plagued by their bastard line – a line they chose to raise to a certain legitimacy. When you win, this will still be an issue – Jon Snow and any children he might have could threaten your claim, even without this.” She waved at the scroll, fingers curling into a claw.

I'm no Blackfyre, Jon wanted to shout. Even if in private, he worried over the same thing, Lady Catelyn had no right to accuse him of being no better than a Blackfyre. The Blackfyres went to war with their own kin. Jon could never turn on his own brother like that. He'd rather die.

Robb straightened. “I've made my decision, Mother.”

Lady Catelyn clearly had more words, but pressed her lips together so tightly they turned white. “By your will, Your Grace.” She gave Jon one last scathing, cold glare, before excusing herself and quitting the room.

Jon stayed still, curling and uncurling the hand that Hecatomb had torn and scarred months ago. “Your Grace, your mother isn't wrong,” he began. Frustration and anger beat a rhythm in his heart.

Robb's head dropped and he sighed loudly. “The one time you and Mother get along is only to turn on me. Fine. Have at it, Snow.”

“We are at war and I'm part of the vanguard, and a knight sworn to the lord of a lesser House. How do you imagine the lords will take to my being legitimized? Nevermind the Freys and how they might look upon this decision. They were insulted once and now they would be expected to kneel to a bastard king?”

“Old Walder is already offended and petty. You might have to marry one of his get, though, and for that I don't envy you. But the lords would accept you. You're the son of Eddard Stark, and a knight; the Champion of Ashemark. This is only an assurance that even if I fall, the north will remain protected. Someone will take the crown upon my death.”

“I won't take it,” Jon blurted. His brother's words made his skin crawl.

Robb blinked, and clasped him in a sudden hug that reminded Jon of the day he left Winterfell for Ironrath. Neither was going anywhere, yet it felt like a parting affection nonetheless. “You won't be taking it. You'll be protecting House Stark and the north. With the way this war is going...” His jaw clenched. “I've made mistakes. Father and Mother taught me how to be Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. A Stark lord. They never taught me how to be a king.” He gave an odd laugh, almost a hiccup which was so unlike him that Jon's skin prickled with unease. “How do you even teach a man to be a king?” he muttered. He shook his head and met Jon's gaze, Tully blue eyes a shade off from his mother's. “I trusted a man I thought of as our brother, and maybe he thought of us as brothers too, but wouldn't that just make it worse? If Theon thought of us as brothers, of Bran and Rickon as brothers, and did this anyway?”

Jon had to bite his tongue. Theon had never been his brother. He'd been a prick to Jon his whole life. They'd gotten along for the sake of Lord Stark and Robb. But he never would have imagined Theon would have done anything like what he'd done. Now he dreamed of killing the boy he'd once grown up alongside.

“But you're my brother. Always have been. My blood is your blood and my home is your home, you know Jon,” Robb's voice thickened, choked, and Jon felt his own throat tighten.

“I'm not a Stark,” he said insistently. Sansa and Arya were alive, lost or made hostage, but alive.

“Stubborn bastard,” Robb said, with a slight smile. “You're my brother. You've – you've been here, even when you couldn't be because...” he trailed off awkwardly. It wasn't necessarily the proper thing; for a king to rely on his father's bastard and treat him as a trueborn brother.

“I can't take it. Winterfell belongs to Sansa and Arya after you,” Jon insisted.

Robb reared back, eyebrows drawn. “No? What do you mean, 'no'?”

Jon grit his teeth. _I am no usurper, no Blackfyre, no traitor, no kraken. I've not taken from you and yours and I never will._ “Sansa and Arya are still alive. They'd be your heirs until you have a son. I won't take that from them.”

“Sansa might be carrying the enemy's child and they'd have a claim to Winterfell through her and we don't know if Arya is -” his voice cracked before he could speak it. “No, no, Snow. You are my brother, half or no it doesn't matter, you are the only one here. Take it, say yes, damn you.”

“I'm no thief,” Jon spat, guilt and anger battled in his chest. As a boy he'd wanted to be a lord, to be Lord of Winterfell, but those were bastard dreams from a child who didn't know better. He'd climbed his way to Ser Jon on his own. He wouldn't take this from Robb and his children, from their sisters.

Robb didn't understand. He had their Father's name, and his mother at his side. He didn't know what it meant to be a bastard. The crinkle between his eyes deepened to a furrow. “You aren't stealing it. You're protecting it if I fall. After everything this war has taken, I'd be a fool to think it was done taking. The north needs the Starks. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Protect it if I can't.” This was a command from his king, a plea from his brother. “You've my blood, the blood of our father, the blood of every Stark that came before us. Tell me, tell me you'll protect it.”

“If I protect you, then this isn't necessary Your Grace,” Jon replied through clenched teeth. His eyes burned.

“Gods you're stubborn,” Robb gave an unsteady laugh, hand tightening on Jon's shoulder. “You will, won't you?”

 _Blackfyre_ _bastard_ , a voice that sounded like his own, like Lady Catelyn's, hissed from the back of his mind. Jon gripped his king's forearm and gave a single, grave nod.

He'd protect the only brother left to him. The brother who had raised the north in defiance against the southron crown. The king. Jon was no Stark, but he was the son of his father.

_I know no king, but the King in the North whose name is Stark._

 

…

 

The journey to the Twins was quick; the weather was easy, Tywin Lannister wasn't having the success he must have believed he would and seemed to have all but halted his assault on the Riverlands. Lord Bolton had sent some six hundred men to defend their flank before they'd left so the Lannister forces wouldn't ambush them. Hopefully the rumors were false and the Mountain was not marching towards them.

The Freys had received the northern host, but they were far from gracious. They'd done all they could to be offensive without actually offending anyone or breaking etiquette outright. Crossing the Green Fork had only emphasized to Jon just how badly the Freys were needed. The waters were impassable. The Twins were a necessity he'd barely acknowledged until they'd had to cross again, and only then did his creeping sense of dread cling onto him with a vengeance again. The Freys knew they were needed, and from their hospitality and initial welcome, they were quick to remind everyone else of it as well. Their fare was simple, and most of the soldiers were displaced in the surrounding area of the castle.

“Mother believes it wouldn't be proper,” Robb said, a grimace curling his mouth. “I told her you've earned your place but a few of the other lords...damn it.”

Another slight – knight or no, he'd be a bastard. Unwanted and never, never good enough. Even though he had the Stark look more than any of his siblings aside from Arya, he was the mongrel, never the wolf. “It's fine. It's not unexpected.” He'd never been allowed to eat at the main table when Winterfell hosted guests, hadn't danced with the daughters of lords or knights, and remained a ghost within the halls of Winterfell so as to not offend Lady Catelyn. At least he could get drunk with the men outside.

Might get drunk enough to actually man up and pay a camp follower. It was a celebration, after all. He wanted something other than grief and anger and fear living in his bones for just a night.

Robb blew out a long breath. “Right. Still. They've invited other knights. I would have thought they might want to meet the Champion of Ashemark.”

 _Yes_ , Jon thought, _Champion of Ashemark. Conqueror of old men and ruined castles_. “Lord Gregor won't be within, it wouldn't do for his knight to be invited while he remained outside.” He shook his head and hair flopped in front of his eye. With an irritated wave, he pushed it back. He'd need to start tying it back or cut it. He'd look like Father's ghost if he tied it back.

Robb let out a long sigh. “At least Old Walder is satisfied. A royal wedding, a tie to the Tullys and Riverrun, and promised marriage contracts with the girls. He can't ask for anything else without seeming greedy.”

Jon privately disagreed. The old man was a mean one, and from what he'd heard and observed from his sons, Old Walder didn't have any problems being found greedy. “What if he does?” Something scratched at the inside of his skull. Some creeping sense of anticipation.

Robb frowned. “I'm king. How much can you ask of a king?”

 

…

 

Ghost had fled to the woods earlier, before they settled into camp with the Freys. At least he was free from being caged the way Grey Wind had been. Ser Edwyn hadn't been pleased to hear that, and neither had Old Walder, but there was nothing to be done about it. Ghost was more independent, a touch more wild than Grey Wind. If he didn't want to come out of the woods, he wouldn't.

Jon sat at the fireside, waved away by Lord Gregor who told him to enjoy himself. “You're not a cupbearer or a squire, Jon. You're a knight. Knights don't fetch wine. Bowen and Gared have us well in hand.” His lord clapped him on his back and returned to talk with his son and Ser Norren. Now though, while everyone else made merry, Jon simply watched. Even through the walls of the castle, he could hear the drums of the musicians Lord Frey had employed. They were terrible. At least by being barred from entering, Jon wouldn't go deaf. He sunk into his thoughts, ignoring the men laughing and dancing and drinking. No, of course they wouldn't want the bastard tainting the table with the other lords and knights. Some who never joined the vanguard, who boasted of all the things they didn't do. 

It was sudden and unplanned when it happened. He'd turned the idea over in his head countless times, but the idea of fathering a bastard made him shy away, and so he remained as pink-cheeked a maid as Lord Edmure's bride-to-be. A woman, several years older than him, barely clothed at all sat beside him. She wasn't dressed like a handmaid, but she wasn't one of the familiar faces of the camp followers that had traveled with the northern forces.

She smelled sweet. Nothing at all like the sweat and dirt of the bodies he was accustomed to sharing space with, nothing like soap of the camp followers. She took his ale from his hand and drank deeply. When she was done, she set it aside and smiled. “Hello, ser.”

He blinked stupidly at her. Her eyes were a dark, dark blue, almost black. Her hair was long, such a pale blonde that it was nearly white in the night, curling softly around her face and shoulders. “Good – good evening, my lady.”

Her smile grew and she leaned closer to whisper in his ear though he could hear her just fine.“My name is Maerie. I can be a lady, if you like.” Her lips brushed his ear wetly as she spoke and a curl in his gut formed, not wholly unpleasant.

“That's a pretty name,” he parroted what Sansa had once told him to say to a girl who gave him her name. “I'm Jon.”

Maerie leaned closer, pressed against his side, with all the warmth and sweetness in the world. She was pungent, like a ripe fruit, a garden of flowers blooming. Her hand lay on his thigh, rubbing slowly. “Oh I've heard about you. I've heard the camp followers say you'd not lie with them. Why? Aren't they pretty enough?”

“They – they are. It's not them it's only – I don't want to father a bastard.” He stumbled over his words. Her scent was overpowering, overwhelming. He felt lightheaded, drawn in like a fish on a hook. A moth to a flame. The men laughing faded away. Everything did. She was beautiful in a sharp, clear way. Every bit of her, and he couldn't remember how much he'd had to drink.

She giggled, but it sounded in no way mocking, as though she were inviting him to laugh with her. “There's plenty of ways to not get a woman with a babe. Shall I show you? I'd like to.”

“I don't even know what to pay you.”

She shook her head and gathered his larger hand in both of hers, tugging him to his feet and he mindlessly obeyed, drawn to the shadows of her curves and the wide smile on her lovely face. “You don't have to pay me tonight,” she said. Her voice was husky, a kind of sultry that made men pay attention and slaver. In that moment, Jon was no different. “It's a celebration. Besides. You're a pretty one,” she said and tugged on a black curl.

The tent she'd picked out had been set up by one of the Freys, yet she paid it no mind and so he didn't either.

She unlaced him and tugged his clothes off, ushering him to the cot, before she revealed herself to him in the little light that remained in the tent. Jon had seen a naked woman before, but had never seen one when he was suddenly sure and confident of himself. Maybe it had come from the fact that this was a celebration night that he was shunted from, maybe it was because of the war, maybe it was only because everything that had culminated in his life up to this point and he didn't want to be Ser Jon, the White Wolf, the Bastard Wolf, the Bastard of Winterfell, Lord Stark's Shame, Jon the King in the North's heir – he only wanted to be Jon.

She let him touch her, sighed and moaned, showed him what pleased her, and then he was on his back, watching as she moved over him. Her hands were fine boned and delicate, like little birds, fluttering over his heart.

She rolled her hips faster, telling him how best to touch her as she sighed and gasped. Jon vaguely registered the sounds of the drums. _Doom boom doom boom doom boom_. It was too loud to hear any other instruments being played, certainly he heard no singing. Maerie moved over him, hair curtaining them. She pressed a kiss to his mouth when he finished, and then she did. She laughed at him again when he sputtered after he'd finished in her – he'd meant to pull away, but had been enchanted that this woman had not only let him in her, let him touch her, but that any of this was happening at all. “I've herbs and tea for it. No babes for us, don't worry,” she soothed. “I'll go get them, so you'll see. I'll return in a moment, don't move.” She gave him another kiss. She smelled sweet still, over the salt of their sweat and the musk of sex. She slipped on a robe and left the tent with a final smile and a promise to return.

The music had, impossibly, gotten louder. Strings now, with the drums still going in the background. It didn't sound any merrier than earlier. Hardly the sort of entertainment one prepared for a king, not to mention the lackluster food and welcome that had awaited them. Jon wouldn't be surprised if the old man had found and paid drunkards he'd found wandering the roads to play.

The wild cries of a wolf managed to pierce through the din of noise. He sat up slowly, listening intently. Grey Wind. It was Grey Wind, still undoubtedly caged after he'd lunged at Ser Edwyn. Grey Wind, who had lunged and been caged, who had never been prone to the wild fits of Nymeria or Shaggydog, or the sudden tempers of Ghost. Grey Wind, who knew Robb the way Ghost knew him.

Jon stumbled, head clearing rapidly as he dressed hurriedly, buckling Hecatomb to his back. He spun around when moonlight spilled into the tent. Maerie was gilded in silver by the moon, made shadowed and fiery by flickering torchlight. “Oh. You're dressed. You can't be tired yet? I brought my things so you might know...” she held up a pouch. She came closer, curves hidden and revealed at once by the dual lights found in the night. Half of her was a vision, the other half was ghastly. She was exquisite and sinister at once.

He squinted, no longer quite in the grasp of lust he had been. The dazed fog that had swamped his thoughts fled. He'd told Robb that Lady Jeyne was lovely, but not so lovely to break faith with the Freys.

Maerie was beautiful, but not so beautiful that he'd gone deaf.

“Do you know what song that is?” he asked. It was familiar enough to know that he must have heard it before, at least once, but not nearly popular enough that he could recall its name.

Maerie's smile widened a little and she backed away. “I don't, ser, but I might ask someone if you like?” Before he could respond, she left him. He was being paranoid, strange. No wonder she left. There was nothing there but poor music to throw in Robb's face, nothing there but Grey Wind being anxious when he'd never left Robb's side before. There was nothing there.

The strings got louder, a scream, a cry. Grey Wind was howling.

 _Doom boom doom boom_ went his heart, taking the place of the drums.

What was that song? He had to have heard it once before. What was it about? If it weren't so damn loud, he might've been able to hear someone singing it. That damnable song. If Sansa were here, she'd know it in a heartbeat. She would've been singing it.

_Doom boom doom boom doom boom._

What was Old Walder thinking? Even if it was to throw dirt at the King in the North for a broken promise, surely this crossed the lines of hospitality. This song was awful. It was a dirge, not a wedding song. Not a trace of merriment.

By chance, Jon spotted the tip of a bolt being pushed through the gap of the tent flap Maerie hadn't bothered to shut properly. He dove away, made slower from his consumption of ale, and scrambled for cover. A man stood in the entry, pointing the loaded crossbow at him. Two blue towers and a pointed face, a weak chin.

The music had stopped. Grey Wind's cries were panicked, pained, furious. _Robb, Grey Wind, Robb, Ghost, Gared, Bowen – an ambush? A Lannister ambush? No. Betrayal. Who? Why? The Freys, for a broken promise_. His thoughts stuttered over each other, toppling ungainly.

“Shame. I'd hoped to cut down the Bastard Wolf while they were still playing.” He raised the crossbow and Jon was rolling to his feet, but he was clumsy. At best, he'd get a bolt in the back or stomach. He braced himself for it, lunging for the lamp.

But the crossbow never went off, instead, the man was on his back, gagging while Ghost held his throat in his teeth. He crunched down and blood ran.

“Ghost,” he rasped, like a man lost in the desert without water. _Robb_.

He could hear it then. The battlefield had followed them. Men dying and being killed. The sounds of betrayal. He entered it, Hecatomb drawn at his side.

Blood and death and betrayal. But it didn't matter, not now, not when his brother, the king, was in that fucking castle of traitors. He didn't have nearly enough in his guard to protect him – he couldn't hear Grey Wind any longer – and he ran at a full tilt towards the gates. They were shut and guarded by men with swords, crossbows, but Robb was in there, the King in the North was in there – and _where was everyone why weren't they storming the gate to get to their king_?

One of the men hefted his crossbow and aimed, but missed and it sunk into the tent behind Jon. He could throw himself at them, without any hope of opening that bloody gate, but he could do so knowing he tried. He would have tried to save his brother, his king.

He took a step forward, and another bolt was loosed. This one was closer and he retreated on instinct. _No. No. Think, Snow. Think. You're no good to Robb dead. If the Freys are smart, they'll attack the men and hold the King in the North hostage. They won't kill him. It'd be a stupid waste. Walder Frey is not an idiot_. He needed a distraction, something to pull the men from the gates and – a battering ram. The old war machines had traveled with them to the Twins in preparation for assaulting Lannisport. He could climb, but he saw far more Freys lining the battlements.

Jon ducked, keeping out of sight, killing men who stood in his way, killing men who tried to kill him. So many northern and river bodies carpeted the ground. They had no weapons on them. They were drunk. They were dead, dead, dead.

He found Gared and Bowen staggering beneath the weight of Lord Rodrik. His leg looked useless and his arm hung on by mere shreds. “Jon!” Gared yelled. “Gods Jon where were you?” his voice shook, terrified. Bowen's eyes were wide and a gash was open along his collar, a near miss from a blade.

He'd been fucking a woman, Maerie, ignoring the smoke he smelled from the fire he refused to see. What could he say? He left his lord, his brother and king, and lost himself, selfishly refusing to pay attention to the machinations happening around him.

He spotted a cart with a horse, filled with supplies, guarded by another Frey. “Get Lord Rodrik on the cart. We need to save the king. They've got them all locked up in the castle.” Traitors. Allies. Traitors. Traitors all around them. Krakens and towers and lions and stags.

He didn't hear Bowen or Gared say anything, but he cut down the Frey in front of the cart with a brutal swing. Blood leeched onto Hecatomb's hilt, coloring its leaves red. Ghost bound beside him, his muzzle wet. “Where's Lord Gregor?” he barked. They needed to assemble some men, in the midst of this chaos, to save the king. If the Freys had the king, the north was lost. As it stood now, with the Freys slaughtering northmen and rivermen, they no longer had the numbers to face the Lannister forces.

Lord Rodrik's head lolled. “Dead...Father...dead.” Jon noticed Resolute was strapped to Lord Rodrik's back.

Gared looked away. “He saved us. Led them away, but I heard them cut him down.” A red flush appeared over the bridge of his nose. He was close to tears. Jon's heart clenched. They weren't just killing soldiers. Lords too. But – no. They'd lose a hostage if they killed Robb or Lady Catelyn, or the great lords. Still. Lord Gregor, dead. The man who had trained him and taught him at his side, sharing with him the weight that a lord carried, teaching him far beyond what a squire needed to know. Wise words, wise lessons, wise actions. Another father lost.

Jon looked down at Rodrik. “You have to go. You need to get Rodrik out. Take the cart, go to Ironrath. House Stark, the north, was _betrayed_ and people must know.” The loyal ones had to be saved, however many there remained.

Gared fumbled with the reins of the horse and ducked his head when he heard more men approaching. “What about you?” he hissed.

A tent caught fire, another horse with a burning cart attached squealed as it dragged it through the camp. He saw more Frey men standing than anyone else.

“I have to stay,” he said. His brother was here; the only one left to him.

Bowen hopped off the back of the cart after settling Rodrik in, crossbow in hand. “You'll have to disguise yourself and ride hard. Lord Rodrik won't make it if you dawdle.”

“I'm not going to dawdle – I – you're not coming?” Gared asked, brows furrowed.

Bowen shook his head. “I know no king, but the King in the North whose name is Stark. Besides, I'm a better fighter than you.” He turned to Jon and gave him a terse nod. “I'm with you, ser.”

Jon gave a nod back, turned to see more Frey men emerging. They had to find more men to take the gate. “Go, Gared. Go!”

Gared turned the cart around and tucked his head down, shoulders up. Within moments, the darkness had swallowed them and none were the wiser of the missing cart and horse.

One of the Frey men fell dead when a sword decapitated him. Ser Norren, bloodied and heavy, panted and bellowed a laugh from his gut, that sent the other Frey edging away. Bowen brought up the crossbow and fired, catching him in the temple.

“Ser Jon!” Ser Norren yelled. “Where is Lord Gregor?”

“Dead,” he said. “The king and the others are trapped within the castle.”

Ser Norren grunted, stepping on the back of a dead Frey. “For the king,” he said. With a large hand, he waved over three others, two from House Branch and one from House Forrester. “Is it enough?” he smiled wryly.

No it wasn't. And they knew it. Still, despite the chaos, the men dying, it would be folly to attempt to find more men in the middle of all of this, and their king needed them. A sense of calm washed over him, over his dread and terror and burning, burning anger. He was going to die, and so were these men. But they had to try. The effort had to be made, even in the face of certain failure.

“Aye, it is,” Jon said. He met the older knight's eyes and saw reflected there what he felt in his heart.

“We pick off the guards with the crossbows – Bowen is a good shot. Then we enter, save the king and Lady Catelyn, lead the lords to safety. We'll be heroes,” Ser Norren said kindly, shaking one of the younger boys by the shoulder.

 _We're going to be dead. They don't let men like us have pages in a book or in a song unless we die_.

But it wasn't so simple. Frey men found them, time and again, during their effort to position themselves just right to take the gate. Ashemark was simpler. Everywhere else had been simpler. But they had been the invaders. Ser Norren suffered a blow from a warhammer to his side, though he valiantly carried on, breathing out specks of blood.

How long they had been fighting, Jon didn't know. Ser Norren was paler by the moment, sweating and glassy-eyed. Jon's sword arm ached. Every part of him ached. Yet they had to fight when cornered, and attempted to stay out of sight to avoid being swarmed by Freys.

He heard the chanting in between fighting and for a moment, his heart lifted.. “King in the North! King in the North!”

His brother had rallied some forces -

Bowen cursed. “Fuck – Jon – don't look, don't!”

Jon looked up and saw a horse being led by a halter by cheering Freys before some fighting northmen, some of who were barely clinging to life. Ser Norren, Jon, Bowen and the three others were far away enough, behind a tent with the bodies of the Freys they'd killed, that they weren't seen.

Robb sat atop the horse, bloodied and battered, with his crown on his head. No. Not his head. It was Grey Wind's. Spiked through his brother's body, his crown atop the direwolf's final snarl. Jon surged, a storm bubbling from him, without even a rational thought of his position.

A heavy hand dragged him down into the muck. It was Ser Norren, halfway to death. “Don't boy, don't. You can't go off like that, not anymore,” he breathed his blood onto Jon's face. “You can't stay here. You can't. They've killed the king.” Jon struggled beneath him, but the man's bulk kept him down though he winced at the pain Jon's struggle caused.

“Get off me – they've killed him. Those traitors killed them. I'll kill them. I'll kill them.” Rage was a froth on his lips, it was the blood in his veins that sang to be spilled, it was Hecatomb's edge, it was the tears blurring his vision. Tear them rip them hoist them high hang them. Traitors. _Fucking traitors_.

Ser Norren shook him like a dog would a pup. “Settle. Settle. You listen to me Jon Snow. You listen to old Norren. Your king is dead. Your brother is dead. The north has been betrayed. You need to leave. You're the last of the Starks, do you hear me boy?”

_I'm not a Stark. I'm a Snow. Ser Jon Snow sworn to a lord I let die, sworn to a king I let die, sworn to a brother I let die._

“You die, the north and House Stark dies as well, and this goes unpunished. Are you angry?” Ser Norren spat. Jon kept trying to look at the corpse of his brother, desecrated and disrespected. Ser Norren's hand fit around his face and turned him back. “Hear me, Bastard Wolf. Are you angry? Yes? Good. Keep it. All these men might have died because King Robb broke faith with House Frey. All these men certainly died because House Frey is full of cunts that need to be killed, but that won't fucking happen tonight. It won't happen tomorrow, it won't happen in a moon's turn, might not happen for years and years. Stay angry, because if you don't, one day, this might only be a tale people whisper about and know nothing of. The North Remembers.”

Jon's breast was aflame. He'd been stupid. He'd let his guard down, and let himself be reeled in by beauty and want, and ignored his own good sense that he'd cultivated as a bastard. As though being a sworn knight had suddenly made his previous experiences meaningless.

“The North Remembers,” he snarled.

Ser Norren dropped him and lumbered to his feet, infinitely more pale and sweaty. All his strength left him, and now only a haggard man on death's steps remained. “You need to leave,” Ser Norren repeated. “There isn't any glory here to be had. There's just the dead and the slaughter. Find a horse and leave.”

“I'm not a coward.” Jon got to his feet, wiped the tears and sweat and dirt and blood from his face with a shaking hand.

“This isn't about honor or bravery, Jon Snow. This is the survival of the north.” A thick finger jabbed him in the breast. “Your brother honored that girl he fucked, and now look where we are.” His voice dropped, wheezing. His breath smelled like a grave. “We can't take it back, Snow.” He drew Jon closer with a hand that held more strength than Jon would have assumed. “Fuck honor. You need to leave before the Freys get wind of what you are now.”

Jon stared.

“The king is dead. We know no king, but the King in the North whose name is Stark,” Ser Norren continued. He laughed, coughed up something dark and thick, and spat.

Frey men came upon them, blood of northmen and their allies on their clothes. Ser Norren gave Jon a mighty shove and directed Bowen to stay at Jon's side, rallying the other three. Bowen dragged Jon, Ghost running at his side, tongue out.

Tongue tied and defeated, leaving behind his brother's body, and all the men who paid for Frey treachery, for Stark honor, with their lives, Jon followed Bowen numbly.

“King Robb told Lord Gregor, you know,” Bowen said. He approached a forgotten nag still tied to a log. She barely lifted her head. “What would happen if he fell. He was going to take you out of the foot soldier's vanguard. You were supposed to ride with King Robb...”

His voice muted and his words sounded too far away for Jon to comprehend. All he'd wanted was to ride with Robb, proud, as Father's eldest. But Father was dead and so too was Robb. He'd wanted to lie with a woman more than he cared of the danger they'd mired themselves in. And his king was dead. His brother – his brother was dead. His kingly brother's body had been profaned, made a mockery of.

“Ah. The Bastard Wolf. I was wondering where you'd gotten to,” Black Walder said. The long beak of his nose set him apart from his siblings. He appeared more hawkish than the rats he was surrounded by. He drew his sword. “I'd wanted to make a show of you and your direwolf, and we could have hoisted the King in the North high in place of our sigil so others would know what promises mean to House Frey.” He glanced at Bowen, dismissed him, and circled. Jon gripped Hecatomb so tightly that for the first time in months, he felt its hilt bite into him. “Clearly it means nothing to House Stark – or it _meant_ nothing. Years of being shit on by every other House and the King in the North thought he could make fools of House Frey, as if we meant nothing in the grand scheme of this war.” The Frey man behind him drew his sword. “Your brother set aside House Frey, an alliance he swore to, for a crossing he needed for his war, and he had the gall to believe my House owed him allegiance? If a king so easily breaks a marriage, what else is he capable of setting aside?” Black Walder sniffed and spat. He gave Jon, who shook in his fury, a measured once over. “He died calling out for his lady mother. The she-bitch slit the half wit's throat, so we cut hers and slipped her in the river. Can fish still swim if they're dead? Do they float? Tell me, Bastard Wolf, can wolves still howl when their body is a man?”

Hecatomb sang when it met Black Walder's sword. Black Walder pushed him back, parrying and slashing. The other Frey held back, engaged with Bowen, taunting him, but Jon couldn't help him. Black Walder was far more experienced than he was, taller, broader, and quick besides.

He met Black Walder for every move. A lunge was met with a feint, a feint with a parry. Black Walder made a mistake. He was arrogant, always had been, with a stormy temper. Hecatomb sliced his leg open and Black Walder bellowed, falling back to the ground. Jon circled, but Black Walder flung dirt into his eyes and he jerked away blindly, eyes shut. Black Walder attacked and it met flesh this time, slicing through the flesh of Jon's brow, over his eye and down his cheek. He managed to miss the worst of it, but blood ran freely down his face, into his eye. It was enough for Black Walder to flick Hecatomb from Jon's hands kick him in the face, sword held aloft, but he staggered, gasping.

Bowen had stabbed him in the back with his sword, and in turn, the Frey he'd left winded on the ground drove a knife into his belly.

Jon stooped and ran Hecatomb through Black Walder's throat in a single swift movement. He died with a gurgle in the mud. The other Frey was young, just out of boyhood, but Jon swung, and he fell.

Bowen gasped, pressing on the wound. He sat in the mud, breathing quicker. “I saved you,” he said with a half-smile. “I saved a king. I never even made knight, but I saved a king.”

Jon pressed down, felt the hot gush of blood over his fingers. “Shut up Bowen, shut up, you fool.” The knife was deep in his lower guts.

Bowen's fingers gripped his forearm. “They'll come for you...if they ever find that scroll. You've...take the horse...”

Where would he go? Who else had conspired with the Freys? It had to have been the Lannisters. The Freys wouldn't turn on the north without the safety of more allies. They were cowards. Traitorous cowards. They'd taken his father, taken his brother, and still had his sister. They still had Sansa.

Bowen squeezed. “Your Grace,” he said, “Your Grace. Don't leave me like this.”

It would be a slow death. He'd paid the price so Jon didn't have to. Jon didn't correct him, couldn't. The man was dying. He thought he'd die for a king. He only died for a bastard. 

“I won't.” Jon hesitated. “Ser Bowen of the Crossing, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

Bowen's eyes were glassy and fixed. He nodded, head bobbing unsteadily. “I swear.”

The woods were so still and quiet compared to the bedlam past the trees.

Hecatomb slid into Bowen's heart silently, and he fell still in Jon's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted jon to experience more than the red wedding fallout, more things that parallel his canon asoiaf journey. i tried to put shades of it here with the woman, bowen, lord gregor, ser norren, catelyn making really good points, robb trying to be better, honor, etc. this was a lot. breaking it in two wouldn't have worked for me, so it's this chapter that just got out of hand and this was exhausting to write. oh well ~ as always, thank you to all the readers, kudos-leavers and all the comments, i love them and appreciate them.


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